


In The Wake of Your Sunrise

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Sunrise [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blindfolds, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captivity, Choking, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Collars, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, Handcuffs, Humilation, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sensory Deprivation, Slow Build, This goes dark places but I promise it will get better at some point, Torture, Whump, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 184,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Last night I diedI was reborn this morning in the wake of your sunriseA better man-Christopher PointdexterClint Barton has spent his whole life running away from things, long before he was old enough to understand why. Then came SHIELD, and the Avengers, and he thought that for once, he could learn how to stay instead. Could learn to trust, instead of hide. To live, instead of just survive.When Hydra takes over SHIELD, running isn't an option. But Clint isn't so sure he wants to this time. Because now he has something to fight for. Now he has family, and friends, and a potential ally in a brainwashed super-soldier with pretty blue eyes and a questionable memory. Now he has ahome. And he's going to do whatever it takes to get that back.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Brock Rumlow, Clint Barton/Hydra Agents, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Sunrise [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099718
Comments: 983
Kudos: 762





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [One Hell of a Show](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13517190) by [MillyVeil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil). 
  * Inspired by [To the Victor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644843) by [dragonspell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell). 



> Inspired by MillyVeil's 'One Hell of a Show' (and everything else you've written, seriously, I LOVE your stuff) and dragonspell's 'To the Victor.' I read both of those, then my brain mashed them together in my sleep and I woke up with this just pouring out of me. Thank you both for the inspiration. 
> 
> Story contains graphic violence/graphic non-con situations. Please mind the tags. I'll try to be good about updating them. I think I've got the nasty things all tagged up for now. Feel free to let me know otherwise.
> 
> Any mentions of Washington or the previous time Clint and Rumlow slept together prior to this fic are a reference to my other fic [Fury's Sleep-away Camp for Spies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004128).

Brock Rumlow is having a _fantastic_ fucking day. It started in the elevator, with him and eight other guys against Steve Rogers. It hadn’t exactly gone to plan—who knew the guy would jump out the fucking _window_ —but they’d managed to track him down and grab him only a few miles from the Triskelion. The subsequent struggle was intense and brutal, exactly the kind of shit Rumlow lives for. It had taken twenty guys total to bring him down, and even then they only won because Rumlow had gotten a lucky shot with the stun baton right on Rogers’s spine. The man had seized up for a moment, and from there, it had only been a matter of getting the cuffs on him. Rumlow’s now sporting a black eye and a couple other injuries, but he doesn’t fucking care. They took down _Captain America_. The biggest and baddest (good-est?) of them all, and his team took him down like he was nothing.

Well, not nothing. There were a lot of concussions. Multiple broken bones, too. Loder will never walk again, and Jensen is unlikely to wake up from his coma anytime soon. But that's all a small price to pay. Rogers is out of the picture, and the path forward is clear.

His phone buzzes, and he answers. “Rumlow.”

“We got that thing you wanted.”

“Where?”

“Sub-level. B25. You want him moved?”

“Nah. I’ll do it myself.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. What’s the condition?”

“A little bruised. Mad as hell. He wants to know where she is.”

“Don’t tell him.”

“I’m not stupid, Rumlow.”

 _Could’ve fooled me._ “I’m on my way.” He hangs up and lengthens his stride, heading towards the same elevator they caught Cap in not so long ago. He’ll have to ditch his guns somewhere. The guy’s dangerous enough; the last thing Rumlow needs to do is bring in extra weapons.

His phone buzzes again. A text this time. Status update. _Stark under control._

He texts back. _The others?_

_Banner MIA. Thor off-world. Plan in place._

_Keep me updated,_ he responds, then shoves the phone back in his pocket. He could go to the nerve center and help track Banner, but he doesn’t want to. His team did their part. Steve Rogers is down. The other teams can worry about their own shit for now.

He’s got a reward to claim.

Clint Barton is having an _awful_ fucking day. It started with a call to keep an eye out for Cap, who was suddenly a SHIELD fugitive. He was in the room when Jasper Sitwell ordered them into a Level One search for the man. Everyone else had raised eyebrows at the command, but obeyed, pulling out computers and dropping ops and moving security cameras.

Clint wasn’t fooled. Something was up. So he’d left the room and gone to investigate, and almost immediately ran into a STRIKE team. A couple of scuffles later, he was handcuffed and kneeling on the floor of an empty room in SHIELD’s basement.

He glares at the guy standing in front of the door. He was the one who’d pistol-whipped Clint during the last fight, which allowed the other six enough time to wrestle him into some weirdly thick handcuffs. He’d still managed to kill one after that, but then they’d hit him again and things had gone fuzzy.

He has a headache and there’s something wrong with his right shoulder, but all the pain is being pushed aside by the anger pulsing through him. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off in his _life_ , and he isn’t sure if it’s directed at Hydra or himself. Sure, they’re the ones that put him here, but he should have seen the signs long ago. Definitely should have at least _suspected_ Sitwell, that slimy bastard.

Clint adjusts his stance. The guard won’t allow him to sit, so he’s been kneeling here for almost an hour. He won’t tell him where Natasha is, either. She had been on the other side of the room at the beginning. He’d lost her when he slipped out.

What worries him most is that he’s not dead. He’s an Avenger, a top SHIELD agent, and definitely a threat. Logic says he should have been shot immediately. Instead, they’d manhandled him down here and made him kneel on the floor. Which means that this is a power play for someone. Which means that there’s likely something nasty coming his way.

Something nasty arrives in the form of Brock Rumlow. He opens the door and grins when he sees Clint. “Don’t you look pretty,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” Clint growls. “Who gave you the black eye? I want to shake his hand.”

“Cap did,” Rumlow says, touching the bruise gently. “He’s a good fighter. Took twenty of us to take him down.”

Clint’s blood goes cold at those words. If Cap is out, then this situation is worse than he thought it was. “Is he alive?”

Rumlow shrugs. “Probably. Hydra has some plans for him. Nothing you need to be concerned about. Not anymore.”

“Yeah? What should I be concerned about?”

“Me,” Rumlow says, and he grins.

Barton is everything he’s ever wanted. Eternally stubborn, perpetually pissed off, and sarcastic as hell. Absolutely perfect. Rumlow has to take a deep breath to get himself under control. _Easy. He’s yours now. All the time in the world._

He turns to the guard. “Out.”

The guard leaves without a word. Barton looks worried for a moment, but he wipes it off his face quickly. Tough guy. Rumlow loves the tough guys.

“So what’s this about?” Barton asks. “You gonna rough me up a little? Give me some payback for whatever bullshit thing you’ve dreamed up?” He gets his feet under him and stands slowly, probably waiting to see if Rumlow will stop him. “Go ahead. Take a shot. Enjoy it, because as soon as these come off, you’re a dead man. Or maybe even before then. I’m not picky.”

He’s bouncing a little, just waiting for Rumlow to get close. But Rumlow’s not stupid enough to get close. He’s seen what Barton can do with his legs. Hell, he’s been on the receiving side of those kicks plenty of times in sparring sessions. No, he’ll stay here, thank you very much.

“Boring,” Rumlow says, waving a hand. “Why would I waste my time on that, when there’s so much more we could be doing?”

He sees the wheels turning in Barton’s mind, but the train doesn’t arrive at the right station. “If you think I’m going to do shit for Hydra, you’re sadly mistaken,” he says. “I’ll die first.”

The bravado is impressive, but Rumlow doubts it would really ever come to that. The man has an impressive survival instinct, and he rarely lets moral codes get in the way. If he was given a choice between killing someone or being killed, he’d fire the gun every time. It’s what Rumlow likes most about him.

“Wrong again,” he says. “I’m sure you noticed those handcuffs are a little different than regular ones.”

“So what?”

Rumlow pulls his phone out of his pocket. He keys in a passcode, presses a button, and watches as Barton suddenly grunts in pain. The muscles in his neck tense under the electric currents wracking him, and he falls back down to his knees.

“They do other things too,” Rumlow says, watching the writhing body. “But I figured we’d start there.” He takes his finger off.

Barton is breathing hard, but he manages a furious glare at Rumlow. “Fuck you,” he says clearly. Rumlow hits him again. Just a short burst. He doesn’t want him totally incapacitated.

“Now now. I’m being nice to you. You want to hang out with Cap? I’m sure he’s getting a lot worse.”

Barton snaps his head up at the mention of Rogers. “Where are they? The others?”

“You mean, where’s Romanoff?” He grins. “I know you don’t really give a flying fuck about the others.”

“Fine. Where is she?”

“Safe. For now. Her continued safety depends on a couple things.”

“Like?”

“You, for one.” Rumlow spreads his arms. “Play nice, and so will we.”

“I want to see her.”

“I bet you do.” He shrugs. “Can’t always get what you want. There’s a whole song about it.”

“Uh-huh.” Barton eyes him. “Let me guess. That only applies to me?”

Rumlow laughs. “You catch on quick.”

He’s loving the banter, but he’s itching for the main course. So he walks behind Barton and reaches down to separate the cuffs. Barton is stiff under his touch, probably waiting to be shocked again.

There’s a slight click from the cuffs. Rumlow moves back in front of him and tucks his phone away. “You can move your hands,” he says mildly.

Barton blinks. He shifts a little, then pulls his hands from behind his back. The cuffs stay around his wrists, but they’re no longer attached to each other. “Thanks,” he says, rubbing his right shoulder. “That was uncomfortable.”

Then he launches himself forward.

Rumlow is ready for it. He catches Barton and spins him around, using the momentum of the attack to slam him into the wall. There’s a muffled expletive when his face meets the wall but he recovers quick enough to throw an elbow back. Rumlow catches it in one hand. His other winds into the back of Barton’s shirt and he yanks backwards, then slams him forward into the wall again. He tries to measure his force a little—he doesn’t want to kill the guy, after all.

“Fuck,” Barton grinds out. He’s managed to get an arm up in between his head and the wall to cushion the blow.

“Later,” Rumlow promises.

Barton moves his free arm and whips it backwards with another elbow strike. Rumlow leans back, but the move catches him on the temple and he grunts in pain, loosening his grip slightly. But with Barton, _slightly_ is as good as letting go and shouting “hit me.”

Barton pushes against the wall and shoves himself backwards. Then he whips around and aims a kick at Rumlow’s knee, which Rumlow dodges. Undeterred, Barton comes forward for an overhead strike, bearing down on him like a bulldozer. Rumlow catches the left arm, ducks the right, and delivers his own swift punch right to the solar plexus. Barton stumbles a little, and he presses the advantage hard. He punches a second time, pushing them back into the wall again. Barton’s head contacts the concrete with a solid _thunk_ and his eyes go hazy for a moment. “Sorry about this,” Rumlow mutters, and he hikes his knee right up into Barton’s groin.

Barton wheezes and drops like a stone. Rumlow can sympathize. He’s been dick-punched before; it’s probably the worst feeling in the world. In the sparring ring, he never would have considered a move like that. But now, he just steps back and delivers another kick to the other man’s ribs to send him sprawling. Then he’s on top of him, flipping him onto his stomach and connecting the cuffs back together at the small of his back.

There’s no struggle beneath him. They’re both a little winded. He takes a moment to enjoy the view, running his hands over Barton’s back and feeling the muscles twitch under his touch.

“Dick move,” Barton finally says when he gets his breath back and stops making retching noises. “Literally.”

“Oh, like you would have done differently.” Rumlow presses a little harder as he runs his hand down Barton’s spine. “You fight just as dirty as I do.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s next? You planning on giving me a massage? Because if you’d said that we could’ve skipped the theatrics.”

“I’m sure you know what comes next,” Rumlow whispers in his ear, grinding his erection against Barton’s ass.

Barton is suddenly very still underneath him. Like prey that senses danger, and is waiting for the predator to leave. _Too bad for you, baby. I’m not going anywhere._

“A guy’s got his needs,” Rumlow says. “And I’ve been wanting you for a long time. Ever since South Africa. Your fault, really. You look so pretty when you suffer.”

He remembers how Barton’s back had tensed and moved under the sting of the whip, and how he’d refused to make a sound no matter how hard their captors hit him. His dick hardens even more, and he has to think about something else in order to not ruin the moment.

“I saved your life in South Africa,” Barton growls. “Twice.”

“And now we’re here. Funny world, isn’t it?”

There’s a shift underneath him. Like he’s getting ready to burst up. Rumlow calmly reaches forward and shoves his head down into the ground. “Nope. Not today.”

“Fuck,” Barton mutters again.

“That’s the plan.”

“What the hell, Rumlow? I thought we were friends.”

“We were. That’s why I’m going to give you a choice.”

“Oh, joy.”

“If you get on your hands and knees for me,” Rumlow says, rubbing himself over his pants, “then I’ll use lube. If I have to put you there, I won’t. I’m not the biggest guy in the world, but I don’t think going in dry is going to feel very good for you.”

“Or for you,” Barton snaps.

“I’ll live. I mean, so will you, but it’ll be a lot worse.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “And probably worse for Romanoff, too.”

Barton cranes his head around, trying to make eye contact. “ _What_?”

Rumlow grins. “Well, she’s not technically my responsibility. But I know the team watching her right now. Maybe we’ll all have a chat later. Maybe I’ll mention your behavior. I can’t control how they react, you know. They might not care. Or maybe they’ll be offended on my behalf and take it out on her. Hard to say.”

Barton struggles again underneath him. Not really trying to get away, more of an instinctive reaction to the words. When Rumlow doesn’t budge, he groans quietly and lays his head back down on the concrete. “Don’t do that, man. You like Nat. You’ve worked with her.”

“I do like her,” Rumlow admits. “But she gives me the creeps, too, you know? It would be nice to see her put in her place. Just a little bit.”

“Don’t,” Barton says again, and this time a little desperation leaks into his voice. Rumlow is pretty sure that if he gets any harder, his dick’s going to burst out of his pants.

“It’s up to you. Behave yourself, and I won’t have to do anything. I want our first time to be nice, Barton. Be a good boy for me, and I won’t have to hurt either of you.”

Rumlow can see him weighing out the situation. He waits patiently—he’s got all the time he needs—and after a moment, Barton’s shoulders slump a little. “Fine.”

Rumlow grins to himself. Survival, every time. It’s beautiful.

“You need to get off,” Barton says.

“Oh, I intend to.”

“Jesus fucking—get off _me_ , asshole. Move.”

He laughs and obeys, shifting to kneel at Barton’s side. “I’m going to unlock the cuffs,” he says. “Are you planning on doing anything stupid?”

Fucking hell, he wants to remember that expression forever. Fury and anger mixed with fear and a little bit of self-loathing. It’s gorgeous.

“No,” Barton spits.

Rumlow reaches out and touches the cuffs. They hum to life under his hand and he unlocks the magnetic mechanism again. The cuffs click and release.

Barton moves slowly. First he brings his hands up by his chest, hissing in pain as they rotate, then he presses down. Inch by inch, he rises off the floor until he’s kneeling like Rumlow is. He rubs at his right shoulder again and lets out a long breath.

“That bothering you?” Rumlow asks, pointing to the shoulder.

Barton looks at it, then drops his hand with an irritated expression, like he’s just revealed a weakness to the enemy. “No,” he says again.

“What happened? Did you twist it?”

“Do you really fucking care?”

Rumlow holds up his hands. “Whoa. I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Spare me,” Barton says. He looks at Rumlow, then down at the cuffs, then at the floor between them. Weighing the situation again. Wondering if it’s worth potentially losing the fight. Rumlow waits, and the odds come up in favor of survival.

Still moving like a glacier, Barton leans forward again, bracing himself on his hands and knees, and holy fuck is it a beautiful sight. Rumlow wishes he had a camera, but honestly there’s no fucking way he’s going to ever forget this. “Perfect,” he says, running a hand over Barton’s back. “Fuck. Absolutely perfect.”

“Are you going to talk the whole time?” Barton asks, his voice bored.

Rumlow grins. “You can act tough. Won’t bother me.” He reaches around and undoes Barton’s pants, then slides them out the way to reveal perfect, smooth skin. “You have something against underwear? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Ruins the lines,” Barton says. He still sounds bored, but he’s insanely tense. Rumlow gently rubs a hand over his ass. Then he smacks it, hard enough to leave a red handprint.

“That looks nice,” he muses, soothing the irritated skin. He makes a matching mark on the other side. “That looks even better.” He could do that all day.

Barton’s fists are clenched. Rumlow rubs a soothing hand on his back and digs the lube out of his pocket. “You gotta relax, sweetheart. This is going to be worse if you don’t.” He chuckles softly. "Come on. Not like this is the first time we've done this, you and I." He chuckles again, thinking about that day in the forest, and the way Barton had _begged_ him for it. "We had a good time then, didn't we? Could be like that again."

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up.”

“Alright. We’ll move on.” He leans forward and drags his tongue right over Barton’s hole.

Barton actually _jumps_ at this. Like almost completely jolts forward, away from the invasive touch. It’s such a massive loss of control that Rumlow actually stops and leans over him. “ _That_ was different,” he murmurs. “Did I startle you?”

“Christ,” Barton breathes out. One of his fingers is tapping like a metronome on the floor. Counting? Or using the repetition to ground himself? Either way, Rumlow is pleased with the slip. Means he’s wiggling in underneath that cold exterior. He wants to explore the reaction further, but he’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t get off soon, his dick is going to explode. So he lets it go. Lubes up a finger, then starts working it inside.

Despite the tenseness of earlier, it’s surprisingly easy. He has to add a little more lube, and go slow, but he’s able to get a finger in, then two, then three. “Been doing this a lot recently?” he guesses, twisting them, coaxing the hole to open a little more. Barton doesn’t say anything. “Got a boyfriend or something? Come on, you can tell me.”

“No.”

“No you’re not telling ? Or no, you're not with anybody?”

“Both.” The tapping finger is gone, and the fists are tightly clenched again. Rumlow stifles a laugh and pulls his own fingers out.

“That’s alright. We can talk about it later.” He has other things to do now.

He wipes his lubed fingers off on Barton’s back, then undoes his own pants and shoves them down. He wastes no time in popping the lube and pouring a generous amount on his own dick. “I didn’t bring any condoms,” he informs Barton. “Hope you don’t mind or anything.”

“And yet you brought lube,” the man mutters.

Rumlow snickers. “Lube is a necessity. Condoms are just annoying.”

Barton takes a breath like he’s going to respond, but he just shakes his head instead. Rumlow finishes slicking himself up and adjusts his position. “You ready, sweetheart?”

“Either do it or—“ he cuts off with a low groan as Rumlow slides home, the tight heat gripping around his cock like it was always meant to. It’s fucking amazing, even better than he remembers, and he has to stop so he doesn’t nut like a virgin teen on his first night out. Once he has a handle on himself, he slides back slowly, then forward again.

He sets up a steady rhythm. He’s not planning on fucking Barton into the ground today. He just wants to enjoy his prize. Live his moment. The hard stuff can come later. For now, he just wants to relish this.

Barton doesn’t participate, not that Rumlow expects anything different. But he can’t stop the little noises from spilling out, no matter how much he grinds his teeth and clenches his fists. Especially not when Rumlow changes angles slightly, and starts bumping his prostate on every thrust. “You like that?” he asks, starting to get a little breathless. “Huh?”

No answer. He goes a little faster, and reaches around to feel Barton’s cock, which is slowly but surely getting hard. “Yeah. You like it.”

“It’s just biology,” Barton says, every word sharp with hate. “Doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

Rumlow doesn’t stop, just keeps up the steady pace until he feels the edge of his orgasm approaching. Then he goes a little harder, moves a little quicker, and before he knows it, electricity is arcing through him and lighting up everything from his brain to his toes; he’s shuddering in pure ecstasy as every fantasy he’s ever had about this moment pays off. The choking noise that Barton makes underneath him just sweetens it even further.

He stays deep in Barton’s ass while he catches his breath, then slowly pulls himself out. Barton goes to move, but Rumlow slaps him. “Stay,” he orders, still a little out of breath. He watches as a thin line of cum slowly slides out of the still-flexing hole, trickling down to disappear into fabric. “Fuck. That’s so fucking hot, goddamn.” He traces the line back up and pushes his thumb in. It makes an obscene sound and he fucking loves it. “See? No condoms. This is too good a view to pass up.”

He stands up and stretches, then pulls his pants back up and readjusts things, wiping as much lube off himself as he can. It’ll be a little uncomfortable, but considering what he just got to do, a little discomfort is worth it. “Besides, I plan on seeing this quite a bit from now on.”

Barton shifts a little. He doesn’t move, exactly, but he turns enough that Rumlow can see his face. “Come again?”

“Definitely plan to. On every part of you.”

Barton rolls his eyes. “You’re such a—that’s not—if you think this is going to happen _again_ , you’re delusional, you’re—” He starts to push up to his knees.

Rumlow kicks him. Catches him right in the ribs and sends him crashing to the ground again. “ _Stay_ ,” he says, imbuing the word with command and Barton does.

Rumlow kneels beside him. “Here’s how things are,” he says. “Hydra owns SHIELD. We always have, honestly, but now it’s official. Cap is in our custody. They’re probably going to turn him into the Winter Soldier 2.0. Your girlfriend is being held way the fuck away from here with some real nasty assholes. Stark is under control and locked in his tower like a fucking princess. Your blond buddy is off-world currently with no plans to return. And the green guy is being located as we speak.” He reaches out and grabs Barton’s hair in a painful twist. “You’re mine, because I asked for you and they said yes. But if you become too much work, I’ll put a bullet in your head and find myself something to fuck that’s not so much trouble.”

He’s bluffing a little bit there. He has no intentions of killing Barton, no matter how much the guy bucks the status quo. In fact, he’s hoping for quite a bit of bucking. The stubborn ones are always the most fun.

Barton glares up at him. He still looks intimidating as hell, even with his pants around his knees and cum leaking from his ass. They hold each other’s gaze, each waiting for the other to give. Danger and tension is practically tangible in the air, and in his fatigues, Rumlow is already growing hard with the anticipation of another fight.

But after a moment, Barton’s eyes flicker down to the ground. Submission. Survival, every time. Even at the expense of pride. Rumlow wonders how far he can push that, wonder if there’s a point he can hit that will make Barton crack with desperation. He wants to find it.

He grins and leans down to clap him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Make yourself presentable.”

Barton reaches down and pulls up his pants. His movements are slow and there’s a slight shake to his hands. Leftover adrenaline, maybe, or even a little bit of shock. He winces as he works them over his ass, then buttons them up. He looks up at Rumlow and waits.

“Hands behind your back,” Rumlow says, and he seals the cuffs back together. He doesn’t miss the brief flash of pain. “I’ll look at the shoulder when we get home, I promise.”

Barton’s head turns as Rumlow helps him up. “Home?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Home.” He laughs. “What, did you think I was going to keep you here? My knees can’t take a concrete floor for every fuck. Next time, we’re doing it in a bed.”

“Sounds _lovely_ ,” Barton says, but his face screams _there will be no next time._

Which is fine. Rumlow’s always loved a challenge.

He grabs Barton’s arm and hauls him towards the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her. Always her. He pretends to show concern for the rest of the team, but it always comes down to a very simple fact. Clint Barton will do anything for Natasha Romanoff. And Rumlow will exploit that until the end of time.

Surprisingly, Barton behaves all the way into the elevator, other than pulling away when his right elbow bumps into the wall on a turn. Rumlow’s really going to have to look at that; he doesn’t want there to be any permanent damage.

Barton’s jaw is clenched and he’s shifting uncomfortably. Probably not enjoying the mix of cum and lube sliding out of his ass. “You can shower when we get there,” Rumlow offers. “I just got some new shampoo. Smells nice and everything.” The elevator arrives and they step in.

“Great,” Barton says, not really listening. His eyes are darting everywhere, and he’s clearly planning his next move. There isn’t much to be done in an empty elevator, but Rumlow knows firsthand how it feels to have his face slam into the door, and he doesn’t want a repeat.

“Not a good idea,” he says calmly.

“What isn't?”

“Whatever you’re planning. Everything we discussed before still applies.”

“I’m not planning anything.”

“No?” Rumlow scoffs. “That’s definitely your ‘planning to fuck shit up’ look. I’d know it anywhere.”

Barton shakes his head. “This is my ‘contemplating your violent murder’ look. Very different.”

The doors open on the main floor, and Rumlow shoves him out. “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The main floor is littered with bodies of fallen SHIELD loyalists. A few teams of Hydra soldiers are pulling them into neat rows. Rumlow recognizes a couple of the corpses, including a guy he’d taken home the other night. _Shame. He knew what he was doing._

As the walk past one of the bodies, Barton jerks in his grip and twists, managing to loosen his elbow from Rumlow’s grip. He doesn’t run—not that there’s anywhere to run to—but he does walk a few steps away towards a blond woman laying on the floor. She’s not dead yet, but she’s got a nasty gut wound. Probably won’t be too much longer. He almost feels bad for her.

Barton carefully kneels beside her. “Sharon,” he says quietly, and her eyes flutter open to meet his. “Hey. Sharon. It’s okay.” His elbows flex and he pulls against the cuffs like he wants to touch her.

“Agent,” she gasps, reaching for him with a bloody hand. “They came out of nowhere, I’m sorry. I didn’t see…”

“It’s okay,” Clint says again. “We were all surprised. You’re not in trouble.” His voice wavers. There’s no tears in his eyes, but his fists are tightly clenched again.

“It hurts,” she says, grasping his knee. “Sir, it hurts, _please_.”

Barton turns a little and looks up at Rumlow. “She’s just a rookie,” he says quietly.

“And?”

“And she started two weeks ago, and whatever your fucking problem is with SHIELD, she’s not part of it.”

Rumlow smirks a little. “If you want to ask me for something, go ahead.”

“Help her.”

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.”

A muscle in Barton’s face twitches. “Will you help her?”

“Sure,” Rumlow agrees. He waves over one of the soldiers. It’s another kid, probably the same age as the blond chick, young and dumb and in over his head. “Give me your gun,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Rumlow—“ Barton starts, but Rumlow is already firing. The bullet hits the girl between the eyes and her blood splashes in an impressive arc, coating herself and the floor and most of Barton.

“There,” Rumlow says, handing the gun back. “I helped.”

Barton is staring at the girl. His face is spattered with blood. It’s kind of hot, actually, and Rumlow has a sudden urge to fuck him again right there. He doesn’t, partially because he has _some_ standards, and partially because he wasn’t lying about his knees earlier. “Come on,” he says, reaching down for his prize.

Barton twists away violently, spinning in a graceful move that ends up with him back on his feet. He glares at Rumlow, who sighs. “I thought you said you _weren’t_ going to do anything stupid?”

“You shot her,” Barton accuses.

“I know. I was there for it.” He sighs again. “Come on, Barton. You’re smart. She had a gut wound. No way could we get her to a doc in time. I did her a favor.”

This information is greeted by a head shake. “No. You could have saved her.”

Rumlow groans. “Are we really going to play this game?” He can sense behind him that the whole room is watching. They haven’t stopped working, but there’s a noticeable tension in the air. Lots of sideways glances. He needs to get this under control, _now_. “Do I need to call my guys? Tell them to work on your girl a little?”

“She can handle herself,” Barton snarls, but there’s a little flash of fear in his eyes. Probably not noticeable to anyone else, but Rumlow sees it. “It’s your guys that should be worried. You’ve seen her work too.”

Rumlow shrugs. “It’s not just her. I can also call Stark Tower. We can see how well Stark flies without his precious armor. Or maybe I should see how Rogers is doing? You might be used to taking it up the ass, but I doubt he is. Should we change that?”

Another bluff. There’s no way Cap hasn’t been bent over multiple surfaces already, not if Rumlow knows anything Pierce and Sitwell. But on the flip-side of Barton’s survival instinct is his martyr complex. He’ll fall on his own damn sword every time if he thinks it’ll save his friends. That kind of loyalty is almost touching. If Rumlow had a heart, it would be breaking.

“Your choice, Barton,” he says again, pulling out his cell phone. “Either get on your knees for me, right now, or make your team pay the price.”

There’s barely even hesitation, which makes it all the more beautiful. Barton flicks his eyes to the girl, then folds to his knees. The fabric of his fatigues soaks in the puddle blood leaking from the girl’s head.

Rumlow grins. “Back to work,” he says to the kid, handing him his gun. He pitches his voice so they can all hear. “All of you. Get to it.” He steps over to Barton and grabs his left arm. “Upsy-daisy.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Barton says. He doesn’t add anything else—no graphic descriptions, no extra threats, no blustering. He says it like he’s stating a weather report. _The sun is up. It’s seventy degrees. I’m going to kill you._ It makes Rumlow’s dick pulse.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” he says.

There’s a big car waiting for them right in front of the Triskelion. A driver standing next to it opens the back door, and Rumlow pushes Barton towards it. The other man awkwardly maneuvers himself inside, scooting all the way over to the far side. Rumlow slides in after him. “My place,” he says, and the car pulls away.

Barton fixes his eyes on the window and watches the landscape slide past. _Still planning_ , Rumlow thinks. _That’s okay. So am I._

“You hungry?” he asks. “We could get takeout. I know a great Chinese place.”

“No.”

“What about pizza?”

“No.”

“Come on, I know you like pizza.”

Barton looks at him like he’s a idiot, then turns back to the window. “No.”

Rumlow sighs. “You gonna keep up this big bad boy thing forever? You’ll have to talk to me sometime.”

He turns again, and there’s a hint of a cold smile in his voice this time. “No.”

Rumlow barks out a laugh, then leans forward and taps the driver. “Swing over by Mario’s.” He looks at Barton. “What do you want? Pepperoni? Cheese?” He winks. “Sausage?” Barton rolls his eyes. “Come on. Choose something.”

“Fuck off.” He leans his head against the back of the seat, then winces and sits up.

“Headache?” Rumlow asks. “I heard they hit you pretty hard.”

No answer. Barton just adjusts his position and looks back out the window. His fingers are flexing in the cuffs, like he’s itching to break out of them. Tough luck. Rumlow’s been in those cuffs. There’s no getting out without help.

They stop at Mario’s. “Last chance,” Rumlow says.

Barton shakes his head.

“Fine.” Rumlow digs in his pocket and pulls out a couple bills. “Here,” he says, handing them to the driver. “Get whatever. Keep the change.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closes and Rumlow leans back in his seat. “Probably be about twenty minutes,” he says. “Good pizza, though. Worth the wait.”

Barton presses his lips together and doesn’t answer.

Rumlow’s phone buzzes. “Huh,” he says, examining the picture and its message. “That’s an interesting picture. Didn’t know Romanoff was so flexible.”

Barton stirs slightly. Not much. Just a twitch in his fingers, a little intake of breath. But enough that Rumlow knows he’s captured his interest.

He holds the phone up. “Want to see?”

Barton looks at him, then the phone, then back at him. “Yes,” he says quietly.

“What’ll you give me for it?”

He weighs the situation. “What do you want?”

Fucking hell, Rumlow’s going to burst out of his pants again. He’s fucked his way through years of double service to Hydra and SHIELD, but he’s never been this turned on by one guy. There’s just something so gorgeous about the misery in Barton’s eyes, and the resignation in his voice.

“Well,” he says, shifting a little. “Lots of things. But I think I’d settle for a blowjob, right now. The spacing is a little awkward in here for anything else.”

Barton shakes his head. “No fucking way.”

“I thought you wanted to see.”

“I’m not sucking your dick for a damn photo.”

Rumlow considers. “What about a phone call?”

_That_ gets Barton’s attention. “A phone call?”

“Sure.” He’s feeling generous. “Five minutes. On speaker, of course.”

Barton is quiet for a long time. Rumlow feels the seconds tick by. He’s not going to force the man if he says no—he prefers his dick without teeth marks, thanks very much—but he _really_ wants him to say yes.

Finally, Barton lets out a little huff of air. “Show me the picture first,” he says.

Rumlow snorts. “What for?”

“Proof of life. You show me she’s okay, I’ll do it.”

“ _Okay_ might be pushing it,” Rumlow says, but it’s a reasonable bargain, so he brings up the photo and turns the phone around.

Barton’s eyes widen a little. “Christ.”

“They’re an imaginative group, I’ll give them that.” Rumlow turns the phone and looks again. Romanoff is tied up in some nasty-looking BDSM contraption, with her arms straight above her head and her legs locked wide open. There’s a strap around her neck, and a red gag in her mouth. She’s on the balls of her feet; he can see her calf muscles straining. It’s like a work of art. Rumlow generally prefers guys to girls, but even he has to admire the naked Black Widow for a moment. “Yeah, one of the guys is into all that sub/dom crap. He’s got a _literal_ sex dungeon. I’ve been. Shit’s wild.” He clicks the phone off. “Your turn.”

Barton doesn’t move. “Are they going to kill her?”

“Unlikely. We’re supposed to keep you all alive.”

“ _Supposed_ _to_ isn’t very promising.”

Rumlow tucks the phone away and makes himself comfortable. “Mistakes happen. Hence why cooperation is in your best interests.” He pats his dick. “So?”

Barton takes a deep breath. “Can I have my hands?”

“Absolutely not.”

“There’s not enough room to—“

Rumlow leans around the seat in front of him and reaches down. He fumbles for a second, then finds what he’s looking for. He pushes the button and holds it until the seat in front of him is pushed all the way forward. It’s a big vehicle, and with the seat moved, there’s just enough space in front of him for someone to kneel. “There ya go.”

With a look of resignation, Barton awkwardly slides down into the footwell, then shuffles over until he’s directly in front of Rumlow. It’s a great view, almost as good as looking at his ass. Even the flecks of blood on his face add to the moment. “Good,” Rumlow encourages, opening his pants and freeing his dick. He’d love to make him take the zipper down with his teeth, but they’re a little pressed for time. “Go on.”

There’s a thunk against the door from outside. Some lady with a giant purse brushing against the car. Barton turns sharply at the sound. Rumlow reaches out and directs his attention back to the task at hand. “They can’t see in,” he says quietly, gently pressing his fingers under Barton’s chin. “It’s just you and me here.”

Barton pulls his head away from the touch. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Just don’t.” He leans forward and carefully sucks Rumlow into his mouth.

“Oh god,” Rumlow mutters. His hips jerk forward and he curls his fingers into the leather of the seat. It’s perfect; it’s hot and wet and Barton is _good_ , way too fucking good at this. Always has been. He takes Rumlow into his throat like a goddamn pro, working his tongue and moving down with barely even a gag. He sucks as he comes back up and Rumlow can’t hold back his moans, doesn’t even want to try. His whole body shudders and he wraps his fingers in Barton’s hair. Not pushing, just guiding. “Fuck, Barton, you look so good like that, right there, don’t you fucking stop…”

He loses all sense of time; his whole world is narrowed to the wonderful thing happening right in front of him. Barton slides his tongue over the tip and goes back down and Rumlow moans again, fucking his hips forward into that perfect goddamn mouth. His orgasm builds and builds inside him like a steady drumbeat until he can’t take it any more and he comes hard, right down the back of Barton’s throat, toes curling in his boots as the pleasure quakes through him. Barton grunts in pain as his fingers tighten, but he keeps sucking, keeps swallowing, taking all his cum and _holy fucking hell_ Rumlow has died and gone to heaven twice over.

Barton finally pulls off and sits back on his heels. Rumlow feels like he’s been _poured_ into his own body. He’s literal mush. He barely has the strength to breathe. “Fuck,” he mutters, and forces his head into an upright position so he can see Barton. “That…”

“Phone call,” Barton says, and there’s a _used_ quality to his voice now that definitely wasn’t there before.

“Give me a minute,” Rumlow says, waiting for feeling to return to his extremities.

Barton looks over at his empty seat, then apparently decides against climbing over Rumlow to return to it. His lips are shiny and red; Rumlow revels in the memory of how they looked wrapped around his dick.

“Been improving your skills, I see,” he says.

Barton rolls his eyes.

“How many guys have you been with since Washington?”

A slight shrug on the left side.

Rumlow sighs and tucks himself back into his pants with mostly cooperative fingers. “Well. You did good.” _Good_ is a hell of an understatement, but the point gets across. Barton apparently agrees, because there’s a faint look of amusement on his face.

“Phone call,” he says again.

“Alrighty already. Give me a second.” He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and dials. “Wicker? Yeah, it’s Rumlow. How’s Romanoff?”

“Alive,” the other man says. “Still pissed at us, although she’s a lot less feisty since we started tasing her.”

“Not too much,” Rumlow cautions. “Remember, _alive_ is the idea.”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want?”

“Barton wants to talk to her. I said he could have five minutes.”

“I had the boys drop her in a room. Let me look.” There’s a pause, and a shuffling sound, and then, “She’s sleeping.”

“Hmm.” Rumlow pulls the phone away from his ear. “She’s sleeping,” he says to Barton. “Do you want them to wake her?”

Barton looks conflicted for a moment, but then he shakes his head.

Rumlow puts the phone back up. “Leave her for now. Call me when she wakes up, okay? Before your boys lay a finger on her. And watch the tasering.” He hangs up.

The car door opens, and a pizza box enters the car, followed by the driver. “They had a special,” he says, pausing as he sees the scene in the backseat. Rumlow doesn’t have his dick out anymore, but it’s pretty obvious what the deal is. To his credit, the driver takes it in stride. “Some kind of mix,” he continues. “Pepperoni, sausage, black olives, green peppers…” He consults the receipt. “And mushrooms and cheddar cheese.”

“Works for me,” Rumlow says. “Barton?”

Another slight shrug.

“Come on, big boy. Use your words.”

“It’s fine,” Barton says quietly. His eyes are on the floor and he appears to be deep in thought.

The driver starts the car and pulls back out into traffic. Barton still doesn’t climb back into his seat, which is just fine by Rumlow. He’s not suffering from the view.

Ten minutes later, they pull up to his apartment building. The driver smoothly maneuvers them into the parking garage, then up to Rumlow’s parking space. “Bring the pizza up, will you?” Rumlow says to him. He pushes his own door open and gets out, then pulls Barton out. They walk over to the elevator.

“This is my private elevator,” he says, pushing the button. “Goes right to the penthouse.”

Barton looks at it. Gives a single short nod.

The elevator arrives and the three of them cram inside. It’s a little ridiculous, almost—here’s Rumlow, holding the handcuffed arm of one of the most dangerous SHIELD agents he’s ever met, and they’re on the way up to his penthouse with a pizza. He has no idea how he got here, but he’s loving every second of it.

The doors open and they spill out into the openness of the apartment. Rumlow lets go of Barton, who slowly turns and takes in the view. He actually looks impressed. _As he fucking should be,_ Rumlow thinks _._ He paid top dollar for this place, but it’s fucking worth it. The elevator doors open into the lounge, and immediately opposite them is an entire wall of windows. Bulletproof glass, of course, but they still offer a fantastic view of Washington. Hell, he can even see the Triskelion in the distance, dimly lit by the setting sun. There’s a balcony, and stairs to a rooftop terrace too. Just off the lounge is the master bedroom, and the room he occasionally uses as an office, and the spare bathroom across from them.

Rumlow takes the pizza from the driver and dismisses him. He sets the box on the kitchen counter and turns to Barton. “Well?”

Barton is still scanning the room—not so much for the view this time, he’s pretty clearly searching out weapons—but he turns back at the sound of Rumlow’s voice. “Well, what?”

“What do you think?”

Barton shrugs. “Nice.”

“Nice?” Rumlow opens the pizza box and rummages in a cabinet for paper plates. “It’s my own fucking Fort Knox with a view. It’s way better than nice.”

Another shrug. “Okay.”

Rumlow takes a bite of the pizza. “Fuck, that’s good. Here.” He kicks a chair towards Barton. “Come sit. I know you haven’t eaten since this morning; there’s no way you’re not hungry.”

Barton rolls his eyes and very deliberately turns his back, looking back out at the view, and suddenly Rumlow is really fucking pissed off. He slams his hand on the counter. “You know, I’ve just about had it with this whole _strong and silent_ bullshit.” He moves towards Barton, intent on pulling him into the chair and force feeding him if he has to.

He doesn’t realize his mistake until he’s reaching forward. Barton isn’t just looking out the windows. He’s watching the reflections. Watching _him_. By the time Rumlow sees it, it’s too late—Barton’s foot is already connecting with his stomach in a powerful backwards kick. Rumlow grunts in pain as the wind is knocked out of him and he stumbles backwards into the counter. Barton quickly turns, then kicks out again, this time hitting Rumlow’s knee.

Rumlow falls to the floor and rolls, still desperately trying to suck in a breath. He rolls right into a chair, which he grabs and shoves towards Barton. The man dodges out of the way, but it buys Rumlow enough time to get to his feet. He wheezes in a breath and grabs the nearest item—a paper towel roll—and hurls it at Barton’s head.

He misses. Barton ducks under it and runs forward. Rumlow has just enough time to turn to the side so the ramming shoulder misses his stomach, and they both fall onto the glossy floor. For not having any arms to work with, Barton is still really fucking good at wrestling. But Rumlow does have arms, so he yanks one out from under himself and uses it to grip Barton’s injured shoulder like a vice.

Barton immediately growls in pain and pulls away, rolling off Rumlow and getting to his feet. Rumlow gets up too, wiping blood from a split lip. He grins and drops into a fighting stance. “Come on,” he says, beckoning Barton forward. “Come on.”

He doesn’t. He backs up instead, and Rumlow realizes all their fighting and moving has put him right up against the elevator doors. His fingers have already pressed the button.

Well, he’s about to be in for an unpleasant surprise. The elevator is keyed to Rumlow’s fingerprint. It won’t be coming unless he calls it.

Rumlow charges. Barton isn’t quite ready for it; he’s a little off balance from expecting to step back into the elevator. Before he can get his feet properly set, Rumlow’s got a grip on his arm and his shirt. He pulls hard as he turns in a big arc. Lets go at the perfect moment. Barton slams into the wall of windows and, unable to catch himself, collapses onto the floor.

Rumlow leans on the counter and catches his breath. “That was fucking stupid,” he says.

Barton groans and rolls onto his back, then works himself upwards until he’s leaning against the windows. He doesn’t try to get up.

Rumlow gently probes at his stomach. He’ll have a good boot-shaped bruise, but he doesn’t _feel_ like anything’s broken. Might have a doc scan him tomorrow just in case. Last thing he needs is a ruptured spleen or something. “Fucking stupid,” he says again. “Not to mention a little unfair. I offered you pizza.”

Barton lets out a breath. “I don’t like green peppers,” he says. He’s got his own bruise forming on his head from where it slammed the window.

Rumlow snorts. “You could’ve mentioned that. I did ask.”

“My bad.”

Shaking his head, Rumlow picks up the paper towels from the floor and puts them back on the counter. Bending over is an absolute bitch. “Well. You just lost your phone call privileges.”

“What?” He actually has the nerve to look offended at this.

Rumlow raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?” He waves a hand around the apartment. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“That’s not part of the deal.”

“There wasn’t a deal.”

“Oh yes there was.” Barton starts to stand, but then he winces and slides back down on his ass. “I blow you, I get to call her. That was the deal. I did my part.”

“And then you got stupid, so now you get nothing.” Rumlow digs out his phone. “More than nothing, actually. I told you at the beginning your behavior influences the rest of them.”

At the sight of the phone, Barton pushes himself more upright. “Hey,” he says, and the desperation is back. “Wait. Don’t.”

Rumlow pauses with his finger above the screen and waits. “Yes?”

Barton’s jaw works, like the words are stuck. “Please,” he finally gets out. “Please don’t.”

The Amazing Hawkeye, _begging_ him. Rumlow is never going to get anything productive done around this man. He pops a boner practically every time Barton opens his mouth. “That’s a start,” he says, moving his hand to the counter. “Keep going.”

“It’s not their fault.” Barton manages to slide up the wall, using it to keep himself balanced as he stands. “Okay? You’re right, it was stupid. Don’t hurt her.”

Her. Always her. He pretends to show concern for the rest of the team, but it always comes down to a very simple fact. Clint Barton will do anything for Natasha Romanoff. And Rumlow will exploit that until the end of time.

“Keep going,” he says again, because this is perfect.

“I…” Barton falters. He licks his lips, then says, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Rumlow grins. “Well, let’s start with an apology. A good one. I’m trying to be nice to you here, and you’re being a prick about it.”

Barton looks at the floor. Rumlow takes another bite and waits. After a moment, there’s a barely audible, “I’m sorry.” It’s pathetic, really. Rumlow scoffs.

“Not good enough.” He moves his hand back to the screen. Barton stiffens at the motion, then takes a careful step in his direction. Rumlow watches, instantly on guard, but it doesn’t look like there’s anything dangerous behind the motion. Then again, he’s got a throbbing bruise on his stomach that says otherwise.

Barton stops when he’s in front of Rumlow. They make eye contact, and without breaking it, he slowly gets down on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and Rumlow swallows hard.

“Better,” he says, moving his hand back. “Definitely better.” _Way_ better. His pants are tight again. Barton is going to be the death of him.

“What else?” Barton asks quietly.

Rumlow pretends to mull it over. “Well. My original plan was to let you out of those cuffs for a bit. Maybe check out your shoulder. Get you some food and a shower, then let you sleep a little. But see, now I’m a little worried that I can’t do that without you being stupid again.” He shrugs. “It’s up to you, I guess. If I let you out, do you think you can control yourself?”

“Yes.”

God, there’s so much anger in him. So much conflict. Rumlow loves it.

“So you’re not going to fight me? I want to hear you say it.”

“I won’t fight you.” He meets Rumlow’s eyes again and adds, “ _This_ time.”

Rumlow snorts. “Always hedging your bets, aren’t you? Well. Let me say it this way. If you do start something and I win—which you know I will, because I’m 2 and 0—then I will call my friends holding Romanoff. I will tell them to set up a live video stream, and then I will tell them to do whatever their perverted little minds can dream up. Do you really want to see the results of that?”

“No,” Barton says. He sounds sick.

“Good.” He reaches over and unlocks the cuffs. “Get undressed. Let me take a look at that shoulder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning a tentative update schedule of Tuesdays/Saturdays, depending on life experiences. Hope you're all healthy and safe!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could be doing anything I want to you right now, and they would let me. No one would blink if you showed up tomorrow with missing fingers or your eyes cut out. No one fucking cares what happens to you. Except me.” He pulls his fingers out roughly, relishing in the muffled sound it elicits. “Way I see it, I saved your goddamn life. I suggest you keep that in mind from now on.”

The shoulder is massively bruised and swollen. Barton flinches when he touches it. “Looks like it dislocated,” Rumlow says. He manipulates it a bit, then nods. “It’s back in place now, but it’s going to hurt like a bitch for a few days.” He lets go and Barton immediately steps out of reach.

Rumlow admires the sight. Barton’s not male-model chiseled, but he’s got the kind of body that’s actually useful for things. Solidly built, very toned, and with muscled arms that Rumlow wants to see fighting against restraints. Plenty of scars too. Knife wounds, bullet holes, whip marks, old burns. His body is full of remnants from past missions. Rumlow finds it utterly fascinating.

“You’re staring,” Barton says.

“Can’t help it,” Rumlow says. “You’re a goddamn work of art.”

Barton gives him an odd look, but doesn’t comment further. “You said I could shower?”

“Sure.” Rumlow shows him to the spare bathroom. “Towels and shit are in the cabinet. Soap’s in there.”

He starts to close the door, but Barton catches it. “You’re leaving me alone?” The _are you fucking stupid?_ is implied.

Rumlow raises an eyebrow. “I can stay if you want. I don’t mind watch—.”

The door slams in his face.

“Okay then.” He goes back to the kitchen and retrieves his phone, then swipes through the apps until he finds the cameras.

Barton is just standing there, his hand still on the door. Rumlow can’t fully see his expression, but he can imagine it’s mostly confusion. A little trepidation, maybe. He’s waiting for Rumlow to come back and bust down the door.

When nothing happens, he slowly pulls his hand back. Then he looks around the bathroom with slow, calculated movements. He examines everything on the sink, picking up items and turning them over in his hand. Opens the cabinet and pulls everything out. Runs his fingers along the edges, does the same with the mirrors and the light. Then he scans the ceiling and corners.

_Looking for cameras_ , Rumlow realizes. _He doesn’t trust being left alone, unsupervised._

“Smart boy,” he murmurs to himself. The cameras are _very_ well-hidden—one behind the mirror set into the wall, and another one on the bolt of the light fixture— but it’s nice to see the effort being made.

Seeing no camera, Barton then sets to work on the cuffs. He runs his fingers over them, looking for seams or weaknesses. When he doesn’t find any, he tries a few different tapping and swiping combinations. When those fail, he grits his teeth and _pulls_. The cuff slides down his wrist, but stops just below the lower base of knuckles. He tries a few different ways, even using soap to slick the path, but each time the cuff catches and refuses to go further. Rumlow watches the struggle with delight.

After the last attempt, Barton mutters something inaudible and slams his wrists on the countertop. It doesn’t work, of course, but Rumlow can hear the crack from where he’s sitting. Barton freezes, apparently expecting a response.

“Don’t break my shit,” Rumlow yells, and laughs quietly as Barton flips off the door.

Apparently seeing no other recourse, Barton kicks off his shoes, then reaches for his pants and slides them down with a little bitten-off groan of pain. Rumlow stares hungrily. He’s seen the guy naked before, of course—community showers, hostage situations, various medical things—but now he _owns_ him, which makes the whole thing so much hotter. No more sneaking off into the bathroom with nothing but his hand and his imagination. He’s got the real deal right here.

He switches to the overhead camera as Barton steps into the shower. Better views and all. It doesn’t take long for him to get going; Barton’s not the cry-in-the-shower-after-trauma type. He just scrubs himself with quick efficiency.

Rumlow’s phone rings, and he puts it on speaker so he can still see the camera. “Yeah?”

“It’s Sitwell. Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Is Barton with you?”

“Sure is.”

“How was it?”

“Worth the wait. How was yours?”

“Good. You can have a turn tomorrow, if you want. He’s pretty nicely drugged up. Makes him real compliant.”

Rumlow considers. The thought is tempting. He could see if Cap’s as much of a tight-ass as he’s always imagined. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do you need anything? Or is he behaving? I can get you what we’re using on Rogers.”

“No. He’s bucked a little, but he’s mostly under control. I promised him a phone call with Romanoff.”

“Did Wicker send you the picture? I’d like to see _that_ in person.”

“Yeah, he did. Hey, tell him to ease off a little with the tasering. He’s not the brightest bulb. He’s gonna end up killing her.”

Sitwell sighs. “I should have known. I’ll call him later.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. I want you in early tomorrow. You’re being assigned to Banner. They’re having trouble finding him.”

Rumlow watches Barton, who is standing still under the spray with his eyes closed. “I’m a little busy, Sitwell.”

“Well, get un-busy. The sooner we find Banner, the better for us. Bring your toy if you want, maybe he can help. They all know each other.”

“I don’t think he’ll be too thrilled to help us.”

“Show him Rogers. See if that makes him more cooperative. You know how he is.”

Rumlow grins. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good. Tomorrow at seven. Fury’s old office.” Sitwell hangs up.

Rumlow checks the camera again. Barton is still standing there. He hasn’t moved an inch. Rumlow reconsiders his prior assessment. Maybe he is the cry-in-the-shower type. He’s never seen it happen before, but then again, this is a whole new situation.

He gets up and goes over to the bathroom. Doesn’t bother with knocking, just pushes the door open. “Hey. You alright in here?”

“I’m fine,” Barton snaps. Doesn’t _sound_ like he’s been crying. “Can’t a guy shower in peace?”

“I’m just checking. It’s been a long day for you.”

“Get out before I strangle you with a towel.”

Rumlow laughs. “Okay. I’m out.” He picks up the discarded pants and shoes. “And pick up the floor. If you’re gonna throw my stuff around, least you can do is put it back.”

“Out!”

He closes the door again. Takes the pants around the corner and drops them in the laundry. Goes back to the kitchen and puts the shoes in the coat closet. The pizza is cold, but he finishes his slice anyway and sticks the rest in the fridge. No telling if Barton will be willing to eat anything.

Rumlow retrieves his laptop from his room and makes himself comfortable on the couch. His job isn’t really a “work from home” kind of thing, but he is senior enough to have to answer emails and do paperwork. And there’s a lot of it to get done today.

In the bathroom, the water shuts off. There’s some shuffling sounds, and then a muffled string of _very_ inappropriate words. The door slams open and Barton stalks into the lounge with a towel wrapped firmly around his waist. Water is still beading on his skin, and dripping from his hair, and it takes everything Rumlow has to not lunge at the man like an animal and fuck him right there in the kitchen.

He raises an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Give me my damn pants back, Rumlow.” Barton looks pissed as hell. He’s gripping the towel with his left hand, and the flexing muscles only accentuate the silver cuff gracing his wrist.

“I’m washing them. They were covered in blood.”

“Very domestic. Give them back.”

“Why?”

“Because I want them.”

“I thought we agreed that you can’t always get what you want.”

Barton lets out a long-suffering sigh, and rubs his face with his free hand. “Come on,” he says. “I’m not walking around here naked.”

“Why not? I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

“Christ,” he mutters. He rubs his face again. “What do _you_ want?”

“Right now? I’m looking at it.”

“Would you please quit thinking with your dick?” His hand clenches on the towel. “I mean big picture, asshole. What exactly do you think is going to happen here?”

“I told you already,” Rumlow says. “Shower. Eat. Sleep. Was that so hard to understand?”

“And tomorrow? Or the day after? Or next week?” Barton’s voice gets louder until he’s almost shouting. “How long do you think this little show is going to go on, Rumlow? I’m not your goddamn boyfriend. Whatever fucking delusion you’re living in, it’s not—“

Rumlow slams his laptop shut and is across the room in seconds. Barton moves, but not quick enough. Rumlow collides with him. They end up against a wall, Rumlow’s forearm pressed hard to his throat. Barton immediately claws at it. With his free hand, Rumlow grabs his hair and _slams_ his head into the wall.

It’s a little harder than he meant, but the effect is the same. Barton is dazed for a moment, long enough for Rumlow to spin him and connect the cuffs behind his back again. Then he pushes him back against the wall.

“You know what you’re here for?” he asks, pressing down hard. “This.” He presses his finger against Barton’s asshole, and the other man lets out a strangled sound as he tries to twist away. “You’re mine to fuck. That’s your big picture.” He pushes his finger in all the way.

“Stop it,” Barton pants, managing to turn his head to the side. “Stop!”

“I’m doing you a fucking favor,” Rumlow hisses. “You could be with Cap right now, getting your brain fried. You could be with your girlfriend, all tied up and tasered to within an inch of your life. You could be fucking dead—you might be, you know, if I hadn’t asked for you.” He slides a second finger in. “I could be doing anything I want to you right now, and they would let me. No one would blink if you showed up tomorrow with missing fingers or your eyes cut out. No one fucking cares what happens to you. Except me.” He pulls his fingers out roughly, relishing in the muffled sound it elicits. “Way I see it, I saved your goddamn life. I suggest you keep that in mind from now on.”

They stay like that, pressed together against the wall. Barton is deadly still underneath him. His eyes are closed. Could be sleeping, if not for the tenseness in his entire body.

Finally, he opens them. “I still want pants,” he says, but the anger is gone from his voice, replaced by a resigned undertone.

Rumlow sighs. Battle won, for now. “Tell me you understand, and I’ll get you some.”

“Trust me, I get it. Message received loud and clear.” He wriggles a little, probably trying to take pressure off his bad shoulder. “I swear.”

“Good.” Rumlow lets go and steps back. He lets the cuffs unlock, watches as Barton hikes the towel back up to cover his waist. “Stay,” he says. “Facing the wall.”

Barton obeys, and Rumlow goes into his room. He doesn’t have a ton of clean clothes, but he manages to find a pair of sweatpants. He tosses them in Barton’s general direction. “There. Pants.”

“Thank you.” He picks them up and disappears back down the hallway. Rumlow collapses onto the couch and lets out a deep breath. He loves the pushing, mostly because it’s just so perfect when Barton gives in, but it’s fucking exhausting. He’s _tired_.

Barton comes back out, pants on, and looks around. He grabs his shirt from the counter and pulls it over his head with a fair amount of wincing. “What happened to the pizza?”

“Fridge,” Rumlow says, pulling his laptop over. “I thought you didn’t like green peppers?”

“I don’t.” He grabs a few pieces and starts eating anyway. “Where are my shoes?”

Rumlow vaguely waves a hand as he works on an email. “I put them away.”

“Did anyone call? When I was showering?”

“Sitwell did. He wants me in early tomorrow. Said you could come too if you behave yourself.”

“No one else?”

“Someone in particular you want to ask about?” He grins. He’s being pedantic, but it’s fun to watch Barton get annoyed.

And he does get _so_ annoyed. “Natasha, you asshole. I want to talk to her.”

Rumlow makes a non-committal noise. “You still think that’s happening?”

Barton scowls. “Why wouldn’t it? I said I wouldn’t fight you, and I haven’t. All I did was ask for my pants. _You’re_ the one who shoved me into the wall.”

Well. He has a point.

“Fair enough,” Rumlow concedes. “But no. They didn’t call. I’ll tell you when they do. Eat your pizza and shut up, I need to do some work.”

He settles in to do some emails, keeping an eye on Barton the entire time. The other man is…well, relaxed is the wrong word, but the tension that followed him for most of the day is gone. Which most likely means he’s assessed the situation and figured out that his best chance of making it through intact is to cooperate for now. A good choice, but Rumlow definitely has to figure something out long-term. He can’t hold Barton captive forever with the promise of a phone call.

“I don’t suppose you have any alcohol?” Barton asks tiredly.

Rumlow closes his laptop. “Gonna drink your problems away?”

“It’s a thought.” He’s leaning on his elbow, propping his head up in his hand. He looks exhausted.

“Maybe some other time,” Rumlow says. He sets the laptop on the coffee table. “But we both need to sleep. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a hell of a day.”

“That’s a phrase for it,” Barton mutters.

“Come on.” Rumlow stands up and stretches. Barton grumbles but pushes up from the chair and follows him into the master bedroom.

When Rumlow had first moved in, he’d been fucking a guy who was an interior designer. Things between them had ended…poorly, but they’d been together long enough for Rumlow to get his apartment professionally stylized. It’s not really his taste, but it looks nice, so he’d left it all. There’s some kind of muted color scheme going on between the rugs and the walls. He’s got a fancy dresser and a massive bed, with wall-mounted shelves on either side. And there’s the floor-to-ceiling windows, of course, taking up one whole wall and showing a similar view as the lounge.

“Huh,” Barton says, turning to look at it all.

“What?” Rumlow starts stripping out of his gear.

“Nothing.”

“Stop judging my bedroom.”

“I’m not,” he insists. “I just…I don’t know. Had this image of you living in a doomsday bunker way out in the hills or something. Not in a private penthouse on the top floor in the middle of D.C.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Rumlow says, kicking off his shoes. “So you were thinking about where I live, huh?”

Barton snorts. “It’s just curiosity. You can’t tell me you’ve never looked at someone and wondered what their house looks like.”

“Now that you mention it…” He undoes his belt. “I have always wondered what Gerard Thompson’s place looks like.”

“Who?”

“Thompson. You know him. Pale blond hair, creepy smile. The dead guy…guy.”

“The dead guy guy?” Barton repeats, smirking. “Right.”

Rumlow scowls. “You know. The autopsy guy. Looks at the dead bodies.”

“He’s a pathologist,” Barton says. He walks over to the windows and stares out. “And he’s got a very nice house. I’ve been there.”

Rumlow pauses in the middle of taking his pants off. “You’ve been to his place?”

“Yeah, he’s got a house over in Alexandria. Big one. Two floors and a backyard.”

“Wow.” He drops the pants, then kicks them over to the pile of clothes. “I did not know that.”

“It was weird,” Barton admits. “I was waiting for him to show me his Hannibal Lecter-style basement, but it was all very apple-pie American. Wife and kids too.”

Rumlow shudders. “Guy takes way too much pride in being a pathologist to have a wife and kids.” He stands up. “No dead bodies _anywhere_?”

“Nope. Not a one.” Barton turns. “I was…” He trails off as he sees Rumlow wearing nothing but boxers.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Rumlow says with a smirk. “You were what?”

“I was surprised, because he seems like the type to bring his work home. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed. What did you think?” He revels in the uncomfortable look on Barton’s face.

“I…” Barton shifts a little, then says, “Where am I sleeping?”

“Where do you want to sleep?”

“I thought it didn’t matter what I wanted.”

Rumlow grins. “You catch on quick.” He points. “On the bed.”

Barton doesn’t move. “Didn’t take you for the cuddling type.”

“I’m not. I am concerned you’re going to kill me in my sleep. That’s different.”

“Tempting,” Barton says. He still doesn’t move.

Rumlow crosses his arms. “If you’re worried about your nonexistent virtue, you can relax. I’m not planning on doing anything tonight.”

“Implying that you will other nights.”

“Definitely. Have you seen yourself? I have a thousand things I want to do to you.”

Barton stills, and his face gets that Big Bad Shield Agent expression. The really serious one, where he’s out of options but still prepping for a fight. Rumlow’s only seen it a few times, usually on missions that went bad. He vividly remembers the mayhem that follows it.

Which is fine, he likes a little mayhem. But he’s tired, dammit. It’s been a _long_ day.

“Barton,” he says sharply, throwing as much authority into his voice as he can. “Stand down. You’re not fighting this, not right now. You know that and I know that. Don’t be stupid.”

Barton closes his eyes. Rumlow watches as he takes in a deep breath, his left fingers twitching out a tapping pattern. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes again and slowly moves to sit on the bed.

“Good,” Rumlow says gently. “Smart choice.” He takes Barton’s hands and puts the cuffs together, then reaches below the bed and brings up a short length of chain. It’s made of the same metal. Rumlow presses them all together—the cuffs, the chain—and they attach, forming an unbreakable band connected to the floor.

“What the fuck,” Barton says, staring at them. He yanks on the chain, but there’s no give to it at all. He yanks again.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Rumlow says, getting up.

“What the fuck is this? How did you do that?”

“It’s a trade Hydra secret,” Rumlow says. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“For fucks sake—“ he pulls again, the confusion giving way to clear frustration. “Is this a Stark thing?”

Rumlow relents as he gets into the other side of the bed. “Asgardian, actually. But mixed in with some of our tech, yes. Limited edition. You should feel special, honestly. We’ve only got a few sets of those cuffs.”

“I’m honored,” Barton says. “Does Thor know about this?”

“Thor gave us the metal. Well, he gave SHIELD the original pieces of metal, at Fury’s request. He was interested in the military applications of it. But then the project got mothballed, and HYDRA grabbed it.”

“What is it, magnets?”

“In a sense, yes,” Rumlow says. “And in another sense, no. They’ll combine or come apart when _I_ want them to. Like they’re programmed to me. Thor called it imprinting. So you can pull all you want, but you’re not getting out of that. Not unless I let you.”

Barton tugs again, but nothing happens. “So have you _always_ had a chain under your bed, or is that a recent installation?”

“Why Barton,” Rumlow says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Are you asking me how kinky I am?”

He sighs and swings his legs onto the bed, situating himself as far from Rumlow as possible. “Do you ever think with anything other than your dick? Real question.”

“Not when you’re around,” Rumlow says truthfully, and Barton goes still at that. “Now leave it alone and go to sleep, would you?” He reaches over and snaps the lamp off, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Moonlight drifts through the window, along with the glow of the city. He prefers it this way. Sleeping in complete darkness unnerves him.

“What happens if I have to go to the bathroom?” Barton asks.

“Hold it,” Rumlow grunts. “If you piss on my floor, I will kill you.”

“Didn’t even get to brush my teeth. Which, come to think of it, neither did you. That’s gross.”

“Shut the fuck up, Barton.”

“Good dental hygiene is important, you know.”

“I said _shut the fuck up_.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Which is somewhat ironic because you’re definitely the one who kept telling me to ‘use my words’ so I don’t think you—“

Rumlow grabs his phone and turns the cuffs on.

There’s a choked scream from the other side of the bed. After about five seconds, Rumlow shuts it off and sits up. “If you don’t shut up,” he says calmly, watching Barton curl over himself in pain, “I’m going to turn them on, and leave them on all goddamn night. Understand?” He actually can’t—there’s a time limit on them to prevent overheating—but Barton doesn’t need to know that.

Barton lays there, staring at the ceiling as he tries to catch his breath. “Okay,” he finally says, and Rumlow sets the phone back down.

“Glad we understand each other,” he says. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

There’s no response from the other side of the bed, and after awhile, Rumlow drifts off.

Eventually Rumlow’s breathing evens out, and he’s asleep. But despite being exhausted and sore from the recent shock, Clint is wide awake. His mind is racing. Twenty-four hours ago he’d been drinking in a bar, mourning Fury’s death with Natasha. Now he’s chained to Brock Rumlow’s bed like a bad porno fantasy, and she’s being brutally tortured somewhere. And he can’t do anything about it. Even if he could get out of these cuffs and run, there is nowhere for him to go.

He forces himself to breathe. There’s no such thing as no way out. He can do this. He just needs a plan.

_How do you make a plan? Start with a list of the problems._

The biggest problem is no backup. He knows Nat is alive, but that’s all he knows about her. What had Rumlow said about the rest of them? _Thor is off-world, Stark is in his tower, Steve is in custody, and Banner is MIA._

Clint immediately dismisses the possibility of Thor coming back. He’s got his own problems to deal with, and there’s no way to contact him anyway. Banner is an option, but he’s hopefully deep underground at this point. After New York, Clint had helped set him up with some spare identities and escape routes, in addition to what Tony had planned for the team. He knew what it was like to be hunted; he could sympathize with the man’s desire to hide on a moment’s notice. So a possibility, for sure, but an unlikely one. And for his sake, Clint hopes he’s found a deep, dark hole to hide in. He doesn’t want to think about Hydra getting its hands on Hulk DNA.

Nat is possibly an option, but Clint has to know more about where she is and what condition. He at least has a vague idea about Stark and Rogers, but nothing on her. He’s hoping she’ll be able to tell him when she calls, but until then, he has to assume that she’s not viable.

Stark is in his tower. Heavily guarded, no doubt, but he’s there. They’re probably using Pepper as leverage against him. He’ll be willing to help for sure, but Clint has to be able to get a message to him first. With all the toys at his disposal, he might be able to figure out a way to start taking Hydra down from the inside.

Cap is an uncertainty. He’ll fight back if he’s able, but Clint doesn’t know what they’re doing to him. _You could be with Cap right now, getting your brain fried_ , Rumlow had said. He’d also mentioned something about a Winter Soldier 2.0. Clint has no idea what the 1.0 version is like, but he’s heard the rumors and none of them are good. Which means that Cap goes in the same category as Natasha, in the Maybe Helpful But Probably Compromised group.

Clint buries his head in his hands. Really, his biggest problem is lack of information. He just doesn’t know enough. It’s possible too that they’re all dead and Rumlow has been feeding him lies this whole time. And it’s not just his teammates. He doesn’t know anything about SHIELD, or how they’re reacting to the insurrection. The Triskelion was the heart, but there are other headquarters with agents at them. What’s the scope of the takeover? How far does Hydra reach?

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, and lifts his head. The silver metal around his wrists gleams in the moonlight. _More problems,_ he thinks, running a finger over the chain. He’s in Brock Rumlow’s apartment, _literally_ chained to a bed with magic technology from Asgard that won’t respond to his commands. The cuffs are an issue—even if he figures out a way to get the team together, he’s useless as long as he can be incapacitated by a burst from them. So they have to come off. Which means he either needs to convince Rumlow to take them off, or he at least needs Rumlow’s phone. Neither option seems very likely. The man definitely likes having Clint at his mercy, as he’s demonstrated multiple times.

He’s also not afraid to use brute force either. Clint is pretty sure the threat to shoot him and “find something else to fuck” was a bluff. He’s been watching, he sees the way Rumlow looks at him. Has for a long time, truth be told. Clint’s not just a sex toy to him, he’s some kind of prize. So it’s unlikely that Rumlow will kill him. However, he clearly doesn’t mind roughing Clint up, and he’s _good_ at it. Clint knows hand-to-hand, but only what SHIELD and the STRIKE team has taught him, plus the few extras he’s picked up from Nat. He’s normally the guy in the sky, not the one taking hits on the ground. So in any close-quarters combat, Rumlow has the advantage. Clint might be able to get the drop on him from a distance, but getting that distance is not a sure thing. And when he does it, it _has_ to be a sure thing. There won’t be any second chances.

Clint gets as comfortable as he can. He needs to sleep, he knows. He can’t solve anything if he’s exhausted. But he is so _painfully_ aware of Rumlow’s presence behind him that everything else seems secondary by comparison. He keeps feeling Rumlow’s hands sliding up his back, or his fingers pressing into more _intimate_ places—

“Stop it,” he mutters, gripping his hair with his bound hands. The pain grounds him a little. “You can’t do this, man, not now.”

It hadn’t been his first time. Not by a long shot. Hadn't even been his first time with Rumlow. It’s not the sex that bothers him so much, it’s the betrayal. Three days ago, he’d considered Rumlow a friend. Someone he trusted to have his back. They’d been in any number of scrapes together, and had come out the other side just fine.

Clint's’s always considered himself to be a decent judge of character. He’d proven it when he brought Nat in. And then _this_ happened. _Why didn’t I—_

_No_. He cuts the thought off hard. He can’t let himself spiral like this. There will be time later to review. To look at past interactions and examine them for intent and duplicity. Right now, he needs to focus. This is a mission. Just another infiltration. He can deal with his own problems once the mission is complete.

But step one is to sleep. He has to rest. There isn’t anything he can do tonight except worry. Clint turns slightly, trying to make himself comfortable, and scowls at the ceiling. He _hates_ sleeping in handcuffs.

_Better get used to it,_ he thinks as he slowly drifts off. _Looks like you might be on this particular mission for a long time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quarantine day, another awkward moment of writing explicit non-con while my parents listen to church sermons online *chuckles nervously*
> 
> I know I said Tuesdays/Saturdays but I got this chapter done and your comments are pretty much what’s keeping me going through this quarantine so here ya go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I knew a guy once,” Rumlow says conversationally, admiring the view. “Had a pet tiger. Thing was a monster. Seven-hundred pounds.”
> 
> “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Barton mutters. He lets out a shuddering breath as Rumlow starts stroking him again.
> 
> “He was the third person to own it. It mauled the other two. Left one dead and the other close to it. I didn’t understand why someone would want to own something so dangerous that could snap at any second.” He grins at Barton. “Now I do.”

Rumlow wakes up a little bit before five in the morning. The sky outside is still dark. He stretches, wincing as his joints pop, and turns over to face the windows.

Barton is still sleeping. He’s slightly on his side, bound hands resting down by his hips. With his eyes closed and the constant tension gone from his body, he looks almost peaceful. His shirt has slid up in the middle of the night, revealing a tantalizing strip of skin right above his hipbone that Rumlow feels an urge to reach out and touch.

“Stop staring at me,” Barton says, eyes still closed, and Rumlow just about jumps out of his skin at the unexpected sound.

“Jesus,” he says, his heart pounding. “What the fuck.”

Barton opens his eyes and rolls over. “Watching a guy while he sleeps is stalker levels of creepy, you know.”

“Well, you’re not sleeping,” Rumlow snaps, annoyed that Barton managed to get the drop on him like that. “How did you even know?”

“I heard you moving. Made an educated guess.” Barton starts to sit up, but the chain around his wrists catches and he stops. He scowls at it.

“Hm.” Rumlow crawls over the bed until he’s right next to Barton. “Well, why don’t you make another _educated guess_ right now?” He touches right above Barton’s hip, barely ghosting his fingers along the line of a thin scar. 

“No need,” Barton says, tensing as Rumlow pushes his shirt up a little further. “I think it’s pretty clear—“ his breath hitches as Rumlow’s hand splays flat against his skin “—what you want.”

“Good,” Rumlow says softly. “Wouldn’t want there to be any confusion.”

Barton squirms a little under his touch, but he doesn’t try to get away. Rumlow slides his hand down, dipping under the sweatpants, following the oblique muscles down until he brushes against soft curls. Barton squirms again. “ _Someone’s_ awake,” Rumlow says, hand moving a little further until he’s encircling Barton’s half-hard cock. “Good morning to you too.”

“It’s just—“ Barton cuts himself off, a tortured look on his face. He’s practically vibrating with the desire to push Rumlow away, but he forces himself to hold still. Rumlow smirks a little. This is definitely the best morning he’s had in a long time.

“It’s just what, sweetheart?”

“Nothing.” Barton twitches. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You think so?” He pumps his hand once, and Barton makes a little noise. Rumlow’s own cock gets harder. “Doesn’t seem like that to me.”

Barton shakes his head. “Stop.”

“Do you really want me to?” He moves his hand again. “I’m just trying to be nice to you.”

Barton slams his head back against the bed. “Why?”

“Why am I being nice?”

“Why did you ask for _me_?” He pulls against the restraints, but still doesn’t try to push Rumlow off. “You said the only reason I’m alive is because you asked for me.”

“That’s true.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because of this,” Rumlow says, stroking Barton to full hardness. “Look at yourself, Barton. You hate every second of this. You want to kick my ass right now. But you’re not. You’re being a good boy, just laying there and _letting_ me touch you.”

“I’m not _letting_ you do anything, I—“ He stops as Rumlow pulls his sweatpants down and off, exposing him completely.

“I knew a guy once,” Rumlow says conversationally, admiring the view. “Had a pet tiger. Thing was a monster. Seven-hundred pounds.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Barton mutters. He lets out a shuddering breath as Rumlow starts stroking him again.

“He was the third person to own it. It mauled the other two. Left one dead and the other close to it. I didn’t understand why someone would want to own something so dangerous that could snap at any second.” He grins at Barton. “Now I do.”

Barton doesn’t answer for a moment, clearly trying to process everything. “So I’m your tiger?” he finally asks. His fingers are digging into his thigh. “That’s…different.”

“Sure,” Rumlow says. He keeps his hand going on Barton’s cock. “You’re letting me touch you, but your mind is coming up with a thousand ways to kill me as soon as you get the chance.” He meets the other man’s eyes. “That’s the thrill of it, sweetheart. That’s why I wanted _you_.” He pauses, thinking about the last time they did this, then adds, "And you look damn good like this, too."

Barton doesn’t seem to have a response to that, other than biting his lip to hold back a moan. Rumlow keeps going, up and down, pausing to tease at a sensitive spot, relishing every little sound and expression he manages to pull out of the man. His own dick is diamond-hard by the time Barton lets out a little choked noise and spills into his hand, an look of pure misery on his face.

“There you go,” Rumlow soothes. “See? I can be nice. That wasn’t so bad.” He holds his hand out. “Clean it up.”

Barton looks at it. “No,” he says between breaths.

“Be good for me,” Rumlow says. “Come on.”

Barton closes his eyes, but after a moment, leans forward and drags his tongue over Rumlow’s palm. Rumlow just about comes in his boxers at the feeling. “Good,” he whispers. “There you go. Turn over for me, just like that…”

He hikes Barton’s hips up, grabs some lube from the bedside table, and gets a couple fingers in. After a cursory warmup, he wipes them off on Barton’s back and replaces them with his cock. It’s still perfect, just like yesterday, and he moans as that tight heat wraps around his dick again. “Fu-uck,” he says, drawing out the word. “There we go.”

He’s already so turned on that it only takes him a few minutes to reach an orgasm, letting out an obscene moan as he spills into the other man’s body. He rides out the aftershocks with a few lazy thrusts. When the last of it fades away into a pleasant fuzziness, he pulls out with a reluctant groan and slaps Barton’s ass. “Alright. Let’s move, we gotta get into work.” He grabs a few tissues to clean himself off.

“Love to,” Barton says, slowly lowering himself to the bed. “But my work was taken over by an evil organization yesterday, so I think I’ll take today off.”

Rumlow laughs and reaches down to undo the chain and separate the cuffs. “Come on,” he says. “You’re coming in with me. I know you want a better idea of what’s going on. Plus…” He waves his phone in front of Barton’s face. “I’m sure you still want to talk to Romanoff. And Sitwell said I could show you Rogers.”

That gets his attention. “He did?”

“Yep. So get up.”

Barton carefully gets up, wincing as he stands.

Rumlow smirks. “Sore?”

“Someone threw me into a wall yesterday,” Barton says. “Several times.”

“I’m sure that’s the _only_ reason.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He walks over to the dresser and starts opening drawers.

“Is there a reason you’re going through my shit?”

Barton looks up. “Clothes,” he says shortly.

“I gave you pants.”

“Yeah, well. I want different ones. And a new shirt.”

Rumlow sighs. “Picky, aren’t we?” He pushes Barton aside. “Let me do it.” He digs and comes up with an old pair of STRIKE fatigues. “Those work?”

Barton fingers the faded SHIELD patch on the edge, then takes them into the bathroom. The door closes behind him.

“Don’t take too long,” Rumlow yells. “I need to get in there.”

He goes into the kitchen to start the coffee. It brews quick, and he’s drinking by the time Barton comes out. “Want a cup?” he asks, holding up the pot.

“Sure.” Barton sits down. The cuffs make a soft clicking sound as he rests his arms on the counter.

Rumlow pours him a mug. “I don’t have anything to put in it,” he says.

“I don’t care.”

“Alright. I need to get dressed. Can I trust you to sit here?”

“Probably not,” Barton says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Rumlow is suddenly seized by the memory of them around his cock. “But I won’t complain if you want to try.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Don’t move,” he orders, and goes back into his room, opening his phone to the cameras again. His whole apartment is covered; there’s nothing Barton can do that he won’t see.

For a few minutes, Barton actually stays where he is. He sips his coffee and looks around the kitchen, ostensibly taking in the sunrise and the view. As soon as the bathroom door closes, though, he’s on his feet. Rumlow brushes his teeth and watches with amusement as Barton silently slides drawers open, searching for anything that might be useful. He hovers by the knife block for a moment, then abandons the idea. Too noticeable.

Barton eventually picks up a slim piece of metal—bottle opener, Rumlow realizes—and weighs it in his hand. It’s one of the ones with a can punch on the end. He’s got a couple of them laying around; they’re useful to have in the field. Small, easily concealed, handy for several things. _Can also function as impromptu weapons._ He’s actually seen Barton use one to kill a guy before. Jammed it into the man’s carotid artery. Messy, but effective.

Barton slides it into his pocket, then sits back down with his coffee and sips it. Ever the picture of innocence.

Rumlow finishes up and tucks his phone back into his pocket, then strolls out into the kitchen. “Ready?”

“Sure,” Barton says. He gets up.

Rumlow crosses his arms. “Anything you want to tell me before we go?”

“Nope.”

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure.”

Rumlow gives him a skeptical look. “You sat here the whole time, huh? Didn’t move?”

“You told me not to.” He’s good at this. The perfect amount of shock and innocence in his voice, tied up with a _why-do-you-think-so-little-of-me_ expression.

“I did,” Rumlow agrees. “But I’m not sure what you think you’re getting away with, here.”

“I’m not sure what you think I think I’m getting away with.”

Rumlow sighs. He doesn’t want to mention the cameras, not yet, which means he needs to get Barton to admit it on his own. “I’m sure you went searching for a weapon as soon as my back was turned. I’ve worked with you for almost four years, I know how you operate.”

“Good to know I’m predictable,” Barton says.

“So whatever you took,” Rumlow says, “you have ten seconds to give it up. Because if I have to come over there and personally search you, you don't get your phone call, _and_ you lose the privilege of wearing clothes to work.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s actually going to have to do it, and he starts prepping himself for a fight. But then Barton sighs, dropping the act, and reaches into his pocket. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he says, dropping the bottle opener onto the counter.

“Uh-huh. That the only thing?”

“Couldn’t figure out a good way to hide the butcher knife,” he says.

Rumlow chuckles and presses the elevator button. “Get in,” he says, gesturing towards the open doors.

The car is already running when they get down there. Rumlow pushes Barton into the backseat, then slides in next to him. “Let’s go,” he says to the driver. “Quickly.”

Barton tilts his head. “It’s a little unfair,” he says.

“What is?”

“We’re both highly trained agents of a government organization, but only one of us has a fancy apartment with a personal driver. I don’t recall that being offered in my list of benefits when I joined. Does Hydra pay better than SHIELD?”

“My car is in the shop, and Jerry owes me a favor,” Rumlow says. “The apartment is a long story. Remind me later.”

“Jerry, huh? Thanks for driving us, Jerry. You a Hydra asshole like this guy here?”

“Be nice to Jerry,” Rumlow says. “He’s just trying to make a living. Don’t get him tied up in politics.”

Barton sighs and taps his fingers on his knees.

“Besides, you live with Tony Stark,” Rumlow continues. “You’re telling me he doesn’t give you your own driver?”

Barton snorts. “I occasionally sleep in the tower. I don’t _live_ with him. I have a tiny little shithole of an apartment, like everyone else in New York City.”

“Really?” This is a surprise. Rumlow has always pictured the whole happy team living together in Stark’s tower, lording it over the peasants below. “Where?”

“Does it matter? I’m not inviting you over for dinner.”

Rumlow laughs and lets it go. They drive the rest of the way in silence.

The Triskelion looks the same as yesterday. Not that Rumlow expected there to be a flag flying or anything, but it’s odd to walk into a SHIELD building and know Hydra is in full control of it. Barton must feel the same way, because he pauses and says, “This is weird.” His hand touches one of the cuffs.

“Agreed,” Rumlow says. “But think about it later. We’re gonna be late.”

They go up to the fortieth floor, to what used to be Fury’s office. Rumlow knocks on the door.

“Enter.”

Sitwell is sitting in a big leather chair behind the desk. “Rumlow,” he says, nodding in greeting. “And Barton, too. Excellent.” He looks at Rumlow. “Still behaving?”

“Mostly. We’ve had a couple discussions about where he stands. Or kneels.” Rumlow looks pointedly at Barton, then at the ground beside his feet.

If looks could kill, he’d be a charred corpse right now. “You fucking kidding?” Barton asks quietly, half-turning away from Sitwell. “ _No_.”

“Do it for Romanoff,” Rumlow says. “And Rogers. You did want to see him today, didn’t you?”

Barton presses his lips together. Then, radiating hatred, he slowly sinks to his knees. Rumlow reaches out and ruffles his hair. “See? He gets it.”

“Good.” Sitwell’s eyes are fixed on the cuffs. “How’s the tech?”

“It works.” Rumlow reaches down and connects them together. Barton scowls, but doesn’t say anything.

“Mmm.” Sitwell pulls his gaze away and hands Rumlow a datapad. “Here’s what we have so far. He rented a car in Denver under the name Robert Ross, but we lost him after that. We’ve got people on the ground and an APB out for anyone matching his description. Lots of false leads so far. We think he might have gone here—“ he points to a place on the pad’s map “—but we’re not sure.”

Rumlow scans the data. “Where’s the main search happening?”

“Tenth floor conference room.”

“We’ll go there.” He nudges Barton with his foot. “Up. Let’s go.”

“Our guest is in the basement, if you want to show him.” Sitwell holds his hand out for the datapad. “In the medical section. Might be a good…incentive.”

“We’ll make a stop,” Rumlow says. He pulls Barton out of the office. As soon as the door closes, he reaches over and unlocks the cuffs. “Sorry. He likes a show.”

“I want to talk to Nat,” Barton says. “ _Now_.”

There’s a dangerous tone to his voice. Rumlow likes to push him, likes to see how far he can take it, but the cold words suddenly remind him that he’s playing with fire. Barton will only be subservient for so long, and at some point is likely to decide that the lives of his friends are worth risking. No point in pushing him to that brink over a five-minute phone call.

“Alright,” Rumlow says. “Come on.” He points at an empty office, and they go in. “Sit.” He pulls out his phone and dials. Sets it on speaker on the desk.

Wicker answers with a groggy sounding, “What?”

“It’s Rumlow. Put Romanoff on.”

“She’s still sleeping.”

Rumlow blinks. “Still? What the hell did you guys do to her?” He pauses, then says, “You know what? I actually don’t want to know. Just put her on.”

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a second.” There’s some shuffling around, and a few muffled curses, then the sound of footsteps. Rumlow waits patiently, one eye on Barton.

“Romanoff,” they hear Wicker say. “Hey. Romanoff. Rumlow wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him to shove it,” comes the tired reply, and Barton’s worried face melts into pure relief.

“Nat,” he calls. “Pick up the damn phone.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then Romanoff’s voice, equally relieved, comes on. “Clint?”

“Yeah,” Barton says, laughing a little. His hands relax from their tense fists. “Fuck, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m at the Triskelion.”

“Are you…” Her voice trails off. “What’s your situation?”

“I’m with Rumlow.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Barton considers, then says, “Remember Italy?”

“Yes.”

“It’s kind of like that. But with more slamming my head into windows and less pasta.” Rumlow gives him a quizzical look, but Barton waves him off. “What about you?”

“Definitely not like Italy. Think _Fifty Shades_ with less stalking and more torture.”

Barton winces. “I saw a picture.”

“They’re a charming bunch.” Romanoff pauses, then says, “I don’t suppose you have a plan?”

“Working on it,” Barton says. “Sit tight, okay?”

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Clint. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I don’t have to do a lot of things,” he says. “But I do them anyway.”

“Don’t I know it. What’s the team status?”

“Thor’s off-world. Banner’s gone to ground. They have Stark and Cap.”

“Everyone alive?”

“As far as I know,” Barton says, flicking his eyes up to Rumlow.

“Everyone’s alive,” Rumlow confirms. He taps his watch. “Time’s up, Barton.”

“You said five minutes.”

“And you said you wanted to see Rogers today.”

Romanoff clears her throat. “Go, Clint,” she says. “Check on Steve. I’m okay.”

Barton doesn’t look reassured by that, but he slumps back in his chair. “Don’t piss them off, Nat,” he says. “Please.”

“I’ll do my best,” she says. “Rumlow?”

Rumlow leans forward. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to get out of here,” she says. “And if I find out that you’ve hurt Clint, I’m going to do things to you that will make your worst nightmares seem like happy little thoughts. Got it?”

“I’m quaking in my boots,” Rumlow says. He pokes Barton in the shoulder. “Tell your girlfriend goodbye.”

“Bye, Nat,” Barton says, his tone morose.

There’s a beat of silence from the line, and then Romanoff starts speaking very quickly in what sounds like Russian. Barton leans forward, listening intently. There’s sounds of a quick fight, and then a crackling, and she cuts off with a sharp little noise.

“Don’t!” Barton shouts, half-rising out of his seat. “Leave her alone, you fucking—“

Rumlow shoves him back down and stabs at the end call button with his other hand. “Easy,” he warns.

Barton tries to stand again. “They’re hurting her!”

“Sit the fuck down,” Rumlow says. “ _Now_.”

Fuming, Barton sinks back into the chair. “They’re _hurting_ her,” he says again.

“They’ve been hurting her since yesterday,” Rumlow says. “This is nothing new. What did she say to you?”

Barton scoffs. “It wasn’t a code, asshole. She was telling me goodbye.”

“That was a lot of words for _goodbye_.”

“She also said to be careful.”

“Why couldn’t she say it in English?”

“How should I know? I can’t read her mind.”

“Don’t pull that crap with me. Tell me what she said to you.” He picks up the phone.

Barton repeats the Russian phrase, and it _sounds_ like what Romanoff had said, although he can’t be totally sure. “It’s ‘goodbye, I love you, be careful.’ That’s all it means.”

“Why would she say that?”

“Because she loves me and wants me to be careful?”

Rumlow triggers the cuffs. He lets it go on for awhile, watching impassively as Barton ends up on the ground in convulsions. “Try again,” he says.

From the floor Barton groans and curls into himself. “That’s what it means,” he says again.

“And?”

“And the only other time she said it to me was when a mission went bad, okay? It was below freezing, she was bleeding to death, and we weren’t sure if either of us would survive. I went to get help and she said that exact same thing. Like she wasn’t sure if she would see me again, so she had to say it.”

Barton rolls onto his back, and even upside down Rumlow can see the worry in his eyes. “This is the same thing,” he continues. “She’s worried about the long-term. So she said goodbye. Just in case.”

Rumlow doesn’t fully buy the story—there’s something else, he’s sure of it—but he doesn’t push it. There’ll be time for that later. “Get up,” he orders. “Now.”

Barton carefully gathers his uncoordinated muscles and gets up. He stumbles several times as they walk, but manages to follow along behind Rumlow back to the elevator. “Basement,” Rumlow says, and the car starts to descend. He watches as Barton leans heavily against the wall, rubbing his wrists under the cuffs. His hands are shaking.

“I don’t like doing that,” Rumlow lies. He loves it, actually, but he’s keeping up appearances. “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep doing stupid things.”

Barton lets out a bitter laugh and drops his hands to his side. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

They reach the basement and head towards the medical section. Rumlow isn’t exactly sure _where_ Rogers is, but as they go deeper into the basement, they start to hear voices. Cheering. Shouting. And a rhythmic slap of skin that’s hard to misidentify. Barton curses quietly and speeds up, forcing Rumlow to keep pace with him.

Eventually they hit the old surgery room. Or rather, they hit the observation deck of it. Rumlow reaches for the glass door and they step through onto the wraparound catwalk. The actual surgery room is below them, containing at least fifteen guys in varying states of undress. They’re watching and cheering on another guy, who is very invested in slamming his dick into Captain America’s ass.

Rogers himself is naked, splayed out and strapped down on a surgical table with his legs spread and his wrists tied above his head. There’s a blankness to his expression that Rumlow immediately recognizes as the drugs Sitwell mentioned. His limbs twitch on occasion, like they’re trying to pull away, but he’s strapped down too heavily for that. Rumlow can see the marks his team left from the take-down. Gorgeous, fading bruises from the fight that crisscross Rogers’s perfect skin. They go all the way up his chest until they’re marred by a mass of cuts in the shape of a goddamn star. Rumlow shakes his head. _Gotta admire the creativity._

The guy between Rogers’s legs lets out a loud grunt and stops moving. “Fuck,” he says, drawing out the word, clearly riding the aftershocks of a good orgasm. “He’s still so fucking tight.”

The words trigger something in Rumlow, and he feels a thread of arousal start to build. He can’t deny that he’s had fantasies about fucking Rogers, especially with him being all tied up and helpless. Even in this depressing little dungeon of a room, the man still shines like a goddamn beacon of purity and light. Rumlow wants to get his hands on him. He wants to ruin that shiny exterior. Wants it scratched and filthy. He’d bet everything he owns that in the right situation, Captain America can be made to beg for cock like the rest of them. Rumlow wants to be the one to drag him down in the gutter.

A noise pulls him out of his fantasies. At his elbow, Barton is staring down at Rogers, a horrified look on his face. His fists are clenched hard on the railing, except for the single tapping finger.

“Calm down,” Rumlow says warningly, turning to face him.

“I’m fine,” Barton says through clenched teeth.

“Gonna do something stupid?”

“No.”

Rumlow nods and turns back to the scene. “Good.”

Then there’s a whisper of fabric next to him, and Barton does something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to read something a tad bit happier, I put up a [one shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806438) yesterday. It's a no powers/spy-verse Winterhawk fic (verrrry explicit)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint darts his eyes around the room. He recognizes a few of the other guys. They’re looking at him in the same way Franklin is—angry, vengeful, and on the edge of realizing they can make him pay for his mistakes. A few days ago, all they could do was talk shit about him and ask not to be assigned to his team.
> 
> The rules have changed, now. They all know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know what kind of story this is, but mind the tags in this chapter.

Clint doesn’t mean to. He knows that he can’t really do anything to help. He’ll get in a few good hits and then Rumlow will set off the cuffs, and he’ll be taken down. Rumlow will be pissed, and things will probably get worse for everyone, including himself. But when he looks over the railing, and sees the misery underneath that blankness, sees the next one step up to have his turn, all he can think is _Coulson loved this guy._

So he jumps.

He lands on top of some asshole, dropping him to the floor. Before anyone can react, Clint rolls off of him and reaches for the one standing between Cap’s legs. He slams the guy’s head into the edge of the surgical table, grinning madly at the resounding _crack_ and smear of blood. One of the others reaches for him, a dumb expression of disbelief on his face. Clint breaks the outstretched wrist and plants a foot solidly in his chest, sending him backwards into the stairs. He falls into two others and they all go down. _Like bowling,_ Clint thinks wildly, and he turns to face the next one.

He doesn’t get that far. The cuffs around his wrists light up for the second time that day and Clint chokes on the pain of it, falling to his knees. Some rational part of his brain screams at him about _heart failure_ and _disrupted circuitry_ but all he can do is ride it out and pray that nothing permanent comes of it.

“Again,” Rumlow’s voice says, sounding a long way off. “Didn’t we _just_ have a fucking discussion about doing stupid things?”

Clint wants to retort. Wants to stand up and punch the teeth out of Rumlow’s face. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone more in his life, not even his brother. But he can’t make his limbs work properly, everything is shaking and twitching and moving when he doesn’t want it to.

A boot makes contact with his hip and Clint collapses back into the surgical table, right between Cap’s spread legs.

“Get up,” Rumlow snarls at him. He doesn’t wait for Clint to obey, just reaches down and yanks him off the floor. Clint yelps as Rumlow’s hand closes around his bad shoulder. “You fucking idiot. What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

“Didn’t—“ Clint starts. His lips are numb. Is that bad?

“No, you didn’t.”

 _Didn’t want them to touch him,_ he thinks, but he can’t make his mouth work to say it.

Rumlow shoves him hard at Cap, and Clint ends up awkwardly draped over the other man’s chest. “There,” he says. “See? He’s alive and he’s fine.”

“Not fine,” Clint forces out. He tries to get up, but Rumlow pushes him back down.

“Don’t fucking move,” Rumlow says. “You wanna be stupid? Well this is what’s going to happen from now on.”

There’s fingers in his waistband, and then cool air brushing over his bare skin. Clint drops his head onto Cap’s chest, uncaring of the blood, and braces himself. _You knew this was going to happen, idiot. And yet you still went for it._

Natasha is going to _kill_ him.

There’s lube, at least, but not as much as he needs. Just enough to make it more comfortable for Rumlow as his dick nudges against Clint’s ass, then drives home with a steady pressure. Clint bites back a shout as Rumlow comes to rest fully within him. His fingers dig into Clint’s hips. “Get used to this,” Rumlow hisses, and he starts fucking with brutal intensity.

Clint takes it, but it absolutely _sucks_. He’s not really prepared for it. He’s still sore from the morning, and the aching from the shocks isn’t helping. Despite his best efforts, little groans and whimpers spill from his tightly clenched jaw.

He at least gathers enough strength to push himself up a little so he’s not collapsed on Cap’s chest. No need to hurt the guy any more than he already is.

“B’ton?” Cap mumbles. One blue eye is half open, staring at him with hazy intensity.

Clint grunts at a particularly vicious thrust and turns his head. “Y-yeah, Cap. It’s me.”

Cap blinks his one eye. “Why?”

“Came to see how you’re doing,” Clint says. Another rough thrust makes him clench his hand on Cap’s chest. It’s probably painful, but the jolt seems to wake Cap a little more. Clint lets out a breath. “So…how you doing?”

Cap gets both eyes open and lifts his head a little. He’s definitely drugged to the gills, Clint thinks. He probably won’t even remember this.

“Wha’s hap…”

“Just some assholes,” Clint says, and Rumlow punishes that one with a slap that makes him grit his teeth. “Don’t worry about it.”

Cap’s head drops back onto the table with a heavy thunk. “Hydra…”

“I’m aware. Working on it.”

Behind him, Rumlow laughs. “Just can’t stop making plans, can you?” His thrusting gets more vicious. “Gonna have to train that out of you.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says.

Rumlow laughs. “Other way around, sweetheart.”

A couple more bruising hits, and then Rumlow unloads into him with a groan of satisfaction that makes Clint want to vomit. He stays like that for a moment, pressed up against Clint in a mockery of intimacy.

“This is what’s gonna happen,” he says, his lips brushing Clint’s ear. “I’m going upstairs to track down Banner. Since you wanted to be a part of this so badly, you’re going to stay here with Rogers. I’ll collect what’s left later.”

A spike of fear runs through Clint and he turns his head to see Rumlow’s face. “Wait,” he says.

“And,” Rumlow continues, “I’m going to give Wicker a call and see if he can’t send us a nice little video of Romanoff. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit he’s got. He’ll make all of this look like a little picnic.”

The fear turns into full-blown panic, and Clint does a desperate little scramble to get up that Rumlow easily subdues. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says. “Fuck, no, _please_ don’t hurt her, I’m sorry—“

“Not yet. You will be.” He pulls out and Clint’s legs give out underneath him. He falls to the ground with a pained shout. “Behave yourself,” Rumlow says, tucking his dick away. He kicks Clint in the ribs—more of a tap than a kick, really, just enough to get a flinch—and steps back. “Don’t break him too much,” he says to the room in general. “I want him in one piece.”

He leaves.

Clint _wants_ to lay on the floor and curl up until he stops thinking. But he forces himself to move, clambering to his feet and yanking his pants back up.

“That’s not gonna stop us,” says one of the guys, leering at him. He’s got a beer in one hand, and he’s rubbing the front of his pants with the other.

Cap makes a low noise, like he’s finally grasped what’s going on, and the attention of the room focuses on him again. Clint can see the lust and impending violence in every face, and that desperate need to protect _someone_ wells up in him. He’s already fucked up with Nat. The least he can do is make this better for Cap.

He darts forward and grabs the guy’s beer bottle, whirls, and smashes it on the edge of the table. Foam and glass explode everywhere, and Clint points the jagged edge into the room. “Let’s talk,” he says, trying to channel as much authority as he can. He’s just praying that Rumlow didn’t give anyone else the code for the cuffs.

“That’s not gonna stop us either,” Beer Guy says. “And now I’m _really_ pissed at you.”

“You guys leave him alone,” Clint says. “Nobody touches Cap.”

There’s a smattering of disbelieving laughter. “Who’s gonna stop us?”

“Me.”

“Sure,” Beer Guy says. “Until we take that little pigsticker from you, and shove it up your ass. Won’t be so high and mighty then, will you, Barton?”

The way he says Clint’s name is familiar, edged with hatred. Clint studies him for a second. “Wait. _Franklin_?”

“Oh, he recognizes me!” Franklin spreads his arms wide. “Look at that, gents. The great Hawkeye himself knows my name.”

“We worked together in Nevada one time,” Clint says slowly. “Your friend was hurt. McGraw.”

“He died,” Franklin corrects. “He got shot and he died, because you didn’t do your damn job and take the bastards out.”

Clint vaguely remembers the mission. He’d been in a perch, counting bad guys. Some home-grown local terrorist group. He thought he’d gotten them all, and gave the all-clear for the team to go in. One of the terrorists had been wearing body armor, and the arrow hadn’t penetrated all the way through. He’d shot at the others as they entered. Clipped McGraw in the spine. It had been bad enough to need an extraction.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says. “I should have done better. I made a mistake.”

“Damn right you did.” Franklin spits on the ground. “He was a good man, and he died because you were too fucking full of yourself to check your work.”

Clint wants to deny it, but he’s right. It had been in the early days, when Clint was reckless and stupid, thinking he could solve every problem on his own. He’s still like that, but now he has the experience to temper it. And Natasha, when she’s there. “It was my fault. _Mine_. Not Cap’s. He wasn’t even around then.”

“What’s your fucking point?”

Clint darts his eyes around the room. He recognizes a few of the other guys. They’re looking at him in the same way Franklin is—angry, vengeful, and on the edge of realizing they can make him pay for his mistakes. A few days ago, all they could do was talk shit about him and ask not to be assigned to his team.

The rules have changed, now. They all know it.

“Let Cap go,” Clint says. The words feel heavy in his mouth. “Let him out of here.”

Franklin smiles. It makes his blood run cold. “Yeah? In exchange for what?”

“Me.” Clint meets his eyes. _Come on, fucker. You know you want it._ “Whatever you want. I won’t fight you.”

The room is silent for a moment. Then there’s a murmur of interest, a few nudges and glances, and Clint knows he’s won.

Franklin looks back at the others. A few of them nod, and he turns to Clint. “Alright. Drop the bottle.”

“Get Cap out of here first,” he says.

Franklin laughs. “What, you don’t trust us?”

“None of us trust each other,” Clint says. “Or we wouldn’t be here.”

“Wow. That’s deep.” Franklin waves a few of them over. “We’ll see if you sound so goddamn smart when my dick’s down your throat.”

This is the perfect opportunity for a size joke, but the tattered remnants of Clint’s survival instinct rear to life, and he clamps his mouth shut. They are already angry with him. He doesn’t need to make this worse.

Cap’s head rolls towards Clint as the guys unstrap him. “Barton,” he says, voice thick but understandable. “What are you doing?”

“Negotiating,” Clint says. _Poorly._

“Don’t,” Cap says, and Clint thinks it’s directed at him until those blue eyes flick to Franklin. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Cap,” Clint cuts in, before the other man’s stupid martyr streak ruins everything. “Shut the fuck up and get off the front lines.”

He does, surprisingly, although Clint’s sure it’s more down to the drugs than a desire to actually be out of danger. It takes three guys to unstrap him and haul him out the door. “Go hose him down,” Franklin yells at them. One grunts in acknowledgment, and the door slams shut behind them.

Then the entire room focuses on him.

Clint swallows hard and sets the bottle down on the table. It’s surprisingly hard to let go of his weapon. He wants to jam it into all of their throats and let the blood flow. _Can’t always get what you want._

“You’re not going to fight us,” Franklin says. It’s not a question.

“No,” Clint says. His throat is tight.

“If you make it too much trouble, we’ll bring him back.”

“I know.”

“Good.” Franklin takes a sip from his new beer. The room is deathly quiet. “Strip.”

Clint swallows again. He kicks off his shoes, tucks his socks into them, shoves them under the table. The concrete floor is cold against his bare feet.

“Slower,” Franklin says, and Clint glares at him. Threats or no, he is _not_ doing a striptease for these assholes.

He drags his shirt over his head and balls it up, tossing it under the table with the shoes. There’s a few wolf-whistles and a smattering of applause. Clint ignores them and shoves his pants off, adding them to the pile. Then it’s over. He’s naked, cold, and very vulnerable in a room full of men who want to hurt him.

“You look uncomfortable,” Franklin says with a leering grin. “You finally afraid of something?”

“Just bored,” he says. “You gonna stand there staring, or—“

Someone slams him onto the surgical table, and Clint wheezes as his diaphragm takes offense to the blow. “Shut the fuck up,” a voice says, and he hears a zipper descend.

“Hang on,” says another voice. “Get him on his knees first.”

“Good idea.”

A hand wraps in his hair and drags him off the table onto his knees. Clint winces and grabs at it, earning himself a kick to his stomach. “Let go,” someone hisses. He lets go.

A cock is presented to him. Franklin’s. “Open,” he orders.

“He’s gonna bite,” someone else warns.

“No, he won’t,” Franklin says. He grips Clint’s chin. “Right?”

In answer, Clint slowly parts his lips. Franklin chuckles and slides his cock in. It’s thick, and it fills his whole mouth, and Clint can’t help but choke as it goes further than he’s really ready for. He knows what to do—his list of sexual misadventures is long and _extremely_ varied—but he’s always hated throat-fucking. He hates how powerless it makes him feel. He’s a goddamn real-life James Bond, his kill record is in the triple digits, he shouldn’t just be sitting here and _taking_ this—

He chokes again, an ugly sound, and his hands come up involuntarily to push away. “Uh-uh,” Franklin says, grabbing his hair. “Get back on there, I didn’t say you could move.”

Clint clenches his fists as his mouth is filled again. He said he wouldn’t fight, but he _could_. He could end this so quickly. One single bite, and Franklin would be out of commission. He sees it play out in his mind as the man fucks into him. Franklin would scream and double over. Clint would shove him backwards to take out the two standing behind him, then get up and over the table, grabbing the piece of bottle. Push the table into the three on this side. Drop the dark and broody guy in the corner with a kick. Take out the thin one with a stab to the neck. Fight the rest as they come at him, half-drunk and all stupid. It would be like taking candy from a bunch of particularly ugly babies.

And then what? Even if he found Cap and got him functioning, they’d still have get out of a heavily manned Hydra base. He doesn’t doubt that there’s some kind of tracker in the cuffs, so unless he can get those off, their escape won’t last long. At best, he’d be abandoning a semi-drugged Cap to an unmerciful world that he’s still not entirely familiar with. Clint has multiple contingency plans for if SHIELD ever went bad, but all of them require _him_ to be there to give passwords and bribe the right people. Cap wouldn’t stand a chance.

 _You could go alone,_ a small voice whispers to him. _Like the old days. You know how to disappear. You don’t need Cap for that._

 _I can’t just abandon him,_ he argues back.

A slap to his face knocks him off balance and drags him back to the moment. Clint groans and forces himself back upright. “You don’t get to disappear in there,” Franklin snarls at him, wrenching his neck back. “No happy places for you. You’re gonna stay right here and put some effort into it.”

“If you want more effort,” Clint grinds out, “maybe you should have a bigger dick.”

There’s a swell of laughter, and the look on Franklin’s face is one of absolute fury. “Little prick,” he growls, gripping Clint’s hair painfully tight.

“You said it, not me.”

Another chorus of laughing. Franklin’s ugly face twists and his foot kicks out, slamming right into Clint’s groin. A white-hot flash of pain blasts through him and he dry-heaves, curling over as much as he can. _Fucking fuck fuck why do you always have to open your fucking mouth_

The pain radiates up his spine, all-consuming and powerful enough that he doesn’t have the strength to fight them as they manipulate him to his feet. Someone presses him over the table, and there’s a sharp snap of a cap popping open. “Lube.”

“Fuck that,” Franklin says. “I’m fucking him dry, he deserves it.”

 _Don’t,_ Clint thinks, but he can’t get the breath to say it. Anal tearing is a bitch, he knows from experience, and that was with a long recovery in SHIELD’s hospital wing.

“He does,” another voice says. “But he’s Rumlow’s, remember? You really wanna risk that?”

Another voice chimes in. “You can hurt him, Franklin. Just don’t break him.”

“Fine,” Franklin snaps. “Give it here.” The pressure on Clint’s back lessons for a moment, and he takes advantage of it to slide up onto his elbows. He takes a deep breath. _Relax. Don’t make it worse._

A cock presses at his hole, then slides in with all the finesse of a wrecking ball. Clint clenches his jaw against the sounds threatening to slip out. “Yeah,” Franklin grunts. “You were just _made_ for cock, weren’t you?”

“What a slut,” someone else says. “Look at that.”

“I bet you do this on the regular,” Franklin says. “Am I right? I bet you bend over for everybody who looks sideways at you. You love this. Look at how good your little pussy takes me.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “You’ve got some goddamned awful pillow talk,” he says, still a little breathless. “Too many romance novels, or just not enough practice?”

His head suddenly cracks into the table. “Shut the fuck up,” someone says. “Christ, you’re annoying.”

“Here,” another voice says, and Clint recognizes the crackle of a stun baton as he blinks his vision back into focus. He turns his head as the thin guy sets it on the table. “That’ll keep him in line.”

“Good plan.” The baton touches him in the ribs and Clint just about bites through his tongue as it goes off. His whole body clenches up and for a moment, he can’t breathe.

Behind him, Franklin groans. “Ooh, that made you tight, didn’t it? Do it again, Matthews.”

Another shock. Clint lets out a hoarse shout and slams his hand on the table. “Fuck!”

“Working on it,” Franklin says. “One more time.”

One more shock, one more strangled shout, and then Franklin lets out a loud moan as a loathsome warmth spreads inside Clint. “Good boy,” he says, and slides his cock out. Semen rolls down Clint’s leg and he closes his eyes, laying his forehead on the table.

“That shut you up,” someone says, leaning over him. “Look at him.”

“Fuck, that’s hot. Someone get that on camera.”

Clint’s eyes snap open and he starts to get up, but a hand pushes him firmly back onto the table, then yanks his arms behind his back. They must not know how to work the cuffs he’s got on, because someone clicks another pair of regular ones just below them. His bruised shoulder screeches in protest, but he fights it down. “Really?” he asks, turning his head. He spots the asshole with the camera immediately. “Amateur porn? That’s the angle we’re going with?”

“Can’t help it,” someone else says. “You look so pretty when you’re beaten.”

That’s the second time he’s heard that in the course of two days. He marks it down as something to ask Nat once all this is over. _Does my face really encourage people to beat me up?_ Maybe that’s why the bad guys always seem to treat him worse than her. Or maybe it’s because they’re less willing to rough up a girl, which is always beneficial for Nat. Nothing like playing the helpless little girl and then killing six men without breaking a sweat.

“Swanson, you want a go?” Franklin asks. “It’s not Rogers, but he’s still a pretty good fuck.”

There’s a low chuckle. “I don’t care who it is. I just want to fuck something.”

“You’d fuck a hole in the ground if it was warm,” someone says, and the room dissolves into laughter. Clint grits his teeth and tries to relax as a zipper is lowered. Something big, much bigger than Franklin, slides over the skin of his ass before coming to rest at his hole.

“Ask me for it,” Swanson says, leaning over him. “Tell me how bad you want my cock.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Clint shoots back, and his head cracks into the table again. His vision swims, and he thinks belatedly that encouraging repeated head trauma is probably not a good idea.

“Ask me for it,” Swanson says again. “Or I’m gonna fuck you with this instead, and see how mouthy you are after that.” He waves the stun baton in Clint’s field of view, and _fuck_ , Clint does not need that in his life right now. It’s just words. He can say words.

He licks his dry lips and stares at his own warped reflection in the burnished metal. “Fuck me,” he says quietly.

A hand slides up his back and wraps around his throat. “I said _ask_ me, doll. Not tell me.”

It’s just words. “Please.”

“Better. All together now.”

“Please fuck me.”

Swanson chuckles. “Well. Since you asked so nicely.”

He is bigger than Franklin. Much bigger, and Clint can’t hold back the cry as he presses in. “Fuck, that’s _tight_ ,” Swanson says. “You sure we’re not your first time?”

“Pretty sure,” Clint mutters, trying to remember how breathing works. Lungs, he thinks. Air in, air out.

“Shame. Well, we’ll make you remember this one. Don’t worry about that.”

“Trust me.” Clint turns his head. “I won’t forget this.” He locks eyes with Franklin across the room, and the man actually looks worried for a second. Then he wipes it off with a smirk and raises his beer in Clint’s direction.

Swanson finishes, and another takes his place. After awhile, one of them gets the bright idea to kneel on the table to reach his mouth, and Clint mentally clocks out at that point. He doesn’t need to be around for this.

When he comes back to himself, he’s laying on the floor. There’s cum everywhere, in his hair, and on his skin, and in his mouth. It’s dripping out of him. He thinks he should be more disgusted by this but he doesn’t have the energy.

Someone grabs his wrists and he lets out a little moan, but they just twist the second pair of handcuffs off him. Clint slowly rolls onto his back and brings his numb arms over his chest. He lifts his head and examines his fingers. They’re swollen and shaking, but they move when he commands them too. He makes a fist, then tap each finger to his thumb. Probably not permanently damaged.

Sitting up is a painful affair, but he manages it by grabbing the legs of the table and using them to pull his uncooperative body up. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck. Several trucks, actually. And then those trucks dragged him for a few miles through a muddy field. And then ran him over some more.

Point is, he feels like shit.

The room is mostly empty. There’s a few guys drinking beer on the stairs, talking amongst themselves. The one dark and broody guy is still in the same corner he’s been in for the whole affair. Franklin is nowhere to be seen. Clint turns as much as he can tolerate to look at the rest of the room, and spots Swanson and one other guy laughing in the opposite corner. They look up at the sound of Clint moving, and he freezes in place, like an animal hiding from prey. _If you stay very still, maybe they won’t eat you._

No such luck. Swanson grins and rounds the table. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to join us.” He kneels down to Clint’s level. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” Clint says. His voice is hoarse. “One-hundred percent.”

“Oh? Well, maybe you’re ready for more, then.” He reaches for Clint and as hard as he tries, Clint can’t stop himself from flinching away. He hates the whimper that breaks from his throat almost as much as he hates the triumphant expression on Swanson’s face. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

“Did we break him?” one of the guys by the stairs calls. “I was wondering.”

“Nah,” Swanson says. “We just knocked him down a few pegs.” He reaches out and pats Clint’s head. “Tell you what. You tell us thank you for giving you what you wanted, and I’ll leave you alone. Otherwise, I’d be more than happy to go another round, and I’m sure I can find a few guys who feel the same way.”

Clint hates the smug look on his face, and the patronizing smile, and the way his hand gently cups around Clint’s swollen jaw. He’ll do it. Clint knows he will. And as much as he wants to spit in Swanson’s face and tell him to go fuck himself, he knows that he can’t take any more of this. He has to be smart.

_It’s just words._

“Thank you,” he mutters.

“Louder. So everyone hears it.”

“Thank you.” His throat aches.

“Why are you thanking the floor? Look at us. We’re the ones who gave it to you.”

Clint raises his eyes to meet Swanson’s. “Thank you,” he says, holding the man’s gaze.

Swanson ruffles his hair. “Anytime,” he says. “Let me know when you want to do it again.”

Never. He never wants to do this again. He’s not sure how he got into it this time. But his _stupid fucking mouth_ opens and he says, “Sure. Pencil you in for next week.”

He cringes instantly, waiting for the retaliation. But Swanson just laughs and stands up. “Stubborn little bastard, aren’t you?”

Clint reaches under the table and drags his clothes out. He doesn’t really want to put them on, not with the disgusting mess all over him, but he’s not really thrilled about walking out of here naked in front of everyone. He’s not even sure if he’s allowed to walk out of here, actually. Is Rumlow supposed to come get him? Is he just supposed to sit here and wait?

The dilemma is solved by Swanson, who kicks the guy in the corner. The dark and broody one who’d sat there like a statue the whole time. Clint hadn’t really paid him much attention, other than to be grateful at least one person in the room didn’t seem interested in fucking him to pieces. “Take him to the showers,” Swanson orders. “Then take him up to Rumlow.”

The guy stands. He’s tall, with long hair that brushes his broad shoulders and a gorgeous pair of blue eyes. He looks down at Swanson impassively, then steps forward.

Swanson backs away. Giving him space, Clint thinks at first, and then he sees the wariness in the motion. _No. He’s scared of him._ Clint’s not sure why—sure this guy’s big, but he’s not particularly intimidating. Not with a face like that.

The guy reaches for him with a gloved left hand and pulls Clint up like he weighs absolutely nothing. Clint sees a flash of silver between the glove and the edge of the jacket. For a moment he thinks it’s cuffs like his, but the metal looks smoother, almost plated—

His sluggish brain finally puts it all together, and his eyes widen. “Holy shit,” he says out loud. This is the _Winter Soldier._ This is the ghost story that spies use when they want to scare each other. The stuff of nearly fifty years worth of legends. A master sniper with dozens of high-profile assassinations to his name. Clint isn’t sure if he should run screaming or shake the guy’s hand.

“Go,” Swanson says, and the spell is broken. The Soldier grabs Clint’s arm—the bad one, of course, why the fuck not—and steers him out the door. Clint scrambles to hold onto his clothes as the guy frog-marches him down the hall.

This whole portion of the basement is no longer in use, and the emptiness of the hallways has an eerie feeling to it. There’d been talk of moving some offices down here, or maybe building a larger training simulation room, but nothing had ever really happened. Medical had taken over for awhile, but then had ended up on the seventeenth floor. Clint had helped them transfer equipment. That was the last time he’d come down this deep. It was a long time ago. He has no idea where they are now, and he can’t shake the feeling of being buried alive.

The Soldier apparently is having no issues with this. He drags Clint through the maze without hesitation, stopping only when they reach a door with a faded bathroom sign on it. He pushes it open and shoves Clint through.

It’s a locker room. There’s benches, and lockers with the doors hanging off, and flickering lights. It looks like a good place to commit a grisly murder. Which, judging by the blood smears on the tile floor, might have actually happened.

Clint looks at the Soldier, who gestures to the open space in the back. “Shower,” he says. His voice is completely neutral. No trace of an accent of any kind.

Clint drops his clothes on the bench and walks into the shower area. The floor is wet, and there’s a half-used bar of soap in one of the holders. _Someone else has been here recently._

He thinks about what Franklin had said to the guys that took Cap away. They probably brought him here first to clean him off. Would certainly explain the blood smears.

“Shower,” the Soldier says, a little louder. Clint reaches out and turns the water on as hot as it will go. He stands under it and closes his eyes, cutting away the outside world for as long as he dares. Maybe if he stands here long enough, things will go back to normal. He’ll get dressed and walk out and Natasha will be there with the others, and they’ll go do stupid Avengers things and get in trouble and eat schwarma and watch movies—

Hot tears roll down his cheeks, mixing with the spray, and he takes in a shuddering breath. _Come on, Barton. Pull yourself together._

He grabs the soap and starts scrubbing with brutal efficiency. It hurts—he’s bruised and raw—but the pain grounds him, keeps him focused. He washes his hair twice and his body three times, and when he has no more excuses, he soaps up one finger and gently slides it inside himself. It doesn’t _feel_ like anything’s torn, but he’s sore as hell and even his own gentle ministrations feel like sandpaper. He does it anyway—none of them used condoms, and he doesn’t want _anything_ left inside him. A small part of his brain chatters at him about STDs, but he shoves it aside and carries on. Not like he can do anything about it now. He washes his hands again and puts the soap back.

The Soldier shifts, and Clint shuts the water off. He wants to stay forever, but the thought of being dragged out of here isn’t appealing.

“I don’t suppose there’s a towel,” he says.

The Soldier looks at him, then tilts his head towards a paper towel dispenser next to the mirror. Clint shrugs and grabs a couple, sponging off as best as he can. He takes extra care to dry under the cuffs. “Thanks.”

No response.

Clint tosses the towels into the trash can, then pauses in front of the mirror to check the damage head-on. It’s not as bad as he thought it would be, honestly, although he’s definitely _very_ bruised. He winces as he prods at a particularly nasty one on his forehead. “I’ve had worse,” he says to the Soldier, who is watching him. “Way worse. There was this one time in Colombia, with Nat…”

He keeps talking as he gets dressed, because not talking means thinking, and he definitely does not want to think about what just happened. The Soldier never responds, not even to the wilder parts, and Clint wonders just what exactly they’ve done to him to make him so…robotic.

“…and that’s how I ended up in the Amazon,” he finishes as he ties his shoe. “Had to take it downriver a couple miles before SHIELD found me. Have you ever been in the Amazon? It’s awful. Everything in it wants to eat you.” He points at a scar on his arm. “Piranha battle. No joke. I also got some nasty parasite, so that sucked. I was in medical for six weeks. You do _not_ want to know what came out of me.”

The Soldier’s face is completely stoic. Clint finishes his other shoe and puts his foot back on the ground. “I’m Clint,” he says, offering his hand. “This is a little backwards. Usually I introduce myself before I get naked. But I figured you should know.”

The Soldier looks at his hand, but doesn’t move to shake it. “You talk too much,” is all he says, and he opens the door. “Walk.”

“Wait,” Clint says. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Take me back.”

The Soldier stares at him. “Those are my orders,” he says, like doing anything else would be insane.

“You don’t have to follow them. Just walk away. Tell them I knocked you out and ran.”

The mask cracks a little, and Clint sees something like amusement in his eyes. _They’re a very nice shade of blue_ , Clint decides, staring way longer than is probably appropriate.

Then he clears his throat. _Focus._ “Don’t give me that look. I could take you down.” _With lots and lots of backup, and if you started the fight already unconscious._

“Walk,” the Soldier says, pointing at the door.

Clint gets up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

The Soldier looks him up and down with a critical eye, then says, “No.”

“Ouch.” Clint steps out the door. “Evaluated and found wanting. Is it my face? Do I not look scary enough to do it?”

There’s a mild sound from behind him, and he whirls in time to see a small smile. “Holy shit, I made you laugh.” He grins, somewhat emboldened by this. “It _is_ my face, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen you fight,” the Soldier says. “On recordings. You are…not the best.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” Clint says again. “Admittedly though, you’re right. I’m a better sniper. I usually let everyone else do the punching.” His grin fades. “But seriously, man. I need to get out of here. That blond guy they had in there? That’s Cap. He’s my teammate. I need to find him.”

The stoic expression is back. “No.”

“You saw what they did to me,” Clint argues. “That’s the kind of people they are. You really think they’re gonna do a good job running the world? Because that’s their overall plan, here.” He stops and faces the Soldier. “I’m not asking for your help. Just let me go. I’ll do the rest.”

The Soldier hesitates, and for a moment Clint thinks it actually might work. He panics a little, because he doesn’t have a plan at all, other than to run. But then the Soldier shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

A pained expression briefly crosses his face before disappearing back into that blank slate. “I can’t,” he says again, and he pushes Clint backwards. Gently, but enough to make him stumble. “Walk.”

“Please,” Clint tries again, and the next push is harder.

“Walk.”

For half a second, Clint really does consider taking him on. The desire to run is so overwhelming that it smothers everything else, including common sense.

But then his shoulder twinges, and the rest of his injuries make themselves known, and common sense reasserts itself. He can’t take down the Winter Soldier. He can barely fight Rumlow off when it counts. He has no idea where he is, let alone where Cap is. The cuffs are still a problem. And even if he did manage to make any of those miracles happen, he’d still have to fight his way through a veritable wall of Hydra agents before he could make it out the door.

It’s not his moment.

The sudden feeling of helplessness is crushing, and Clint has to put his hand on the wall to keep from buckling underneath it. “Fuck,” he says quietly.

“I am sorry,” the Soldier says. And he sounds a little bit like he actually is.

Clint lets out a little huff of a laugh and pushes himself upright. “Yeah. Who isn’t.”

“We should go.”

“Yeah.” He takes another deep breath. He’s not helpless. It’s just a bad situation. There is always, _always_ a way out. He just needs to wait for the right time.

“ _Walk_ ,” the Soldier says, nudging him forward.

Clint walks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to read something lighter, [here's a short fluffy Winterhawk story.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862904) Story does contain gross description of bug guts.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please,” Barton says, and there are actual tears in his eyes. It’s fucking perfect. “I won’t do it again, okay? I lost my head downstairs, you were right, it was stupid. But it was _me_ , not her, so tell them to leave her alone.”
> 
> “I won’t,” Rumlow says. “Because you don’t care what happens to _you_ , but you care very much about what happens to _her._ ” He puts his phone away. “You know how this works, Barton. She’s my leverage. I could let them fuck you all goddamn day and you’d still come out the other side swinging. But as soon as she’s on the table—literally—you back down.” He pushes Barton against the back of the chair. “Friends and family make good pressure points. You know that better than anyone.”

For a mild-mannered scientist who can turn into a raging green monster, Bruce Banner is surprisingly good at vanishing into thin air.

Rumlow looks over the data for what must be the thousandth time, but it still tells him the same story. As soon as word broke that Rogers was down, there was a Priority level alert sent from a SHIELD computer to a Banner’s phone. The alert was a single word: _SKYJACK._ Rumlow has no idea what that means.

In the beginning, Banner is easily trackable. Cameras and other sources have him leaving the Avengers tower and walking downtown New York City. He goes into a bank and comes out with a thick envelope. Catches a cab to the bus station and buys a ticket for Denver under the name Robert Ross. Cameras track him getting off the bus, and into a car. The car goes south. Passes one traffic camera, then a second, and then disappears. Poof. Gone into thin air like he never fucking existed.

Hydra had canvassed the grounds at every potential stop along the road, halted traffic, even done a fucking helicopter pass over. The car had been left at a rest stop, keys still in it. No sign of Banner. There were no further hits on any of his known identities. No one remembered him. No one had seen him or anyone like him.

_How fucking hard can it be to find a guy who turns into a monster?_

Rumlow pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anything?” he asks the tech sitting next to him.

“No sir,” the tech says. “Nothing yet.”

“What about the alert that was sent? Anything come up on that?”

“SkyJack is a brand name. They make scissor lifts. Based out of Arizona.” The tech pulls up the page, and Rumlow scans over his shoulder.

“Okay. Let’s check that.” It’s probably nothing, but he needs to exhaust every lead.

“Sir,” the tech says.

Rumlow sighs. “What?”

“Well, it’s just that…” he trails off, then seems to regain his courage. “He was working with Stark, before. Stark could have helped arrange it. I know—”

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” Rumlow snaps. “I know they were close, dipshit. I’m working on that. Do your fucking job and keep your mouth shut unless you find something.”

“Always the charmer, aren’t you?” asks another voice. Rumlow turns around to see Barton and the Asset.

Barton looks like hell. He’s moving stiffly, and there’s a number of finger-shaped bruises littering his arms and neck. Even more interesting is the haunted look to his eyes, and the way his fingers are twitching in that tapping pattern against his leg. Rumlow knows someone had been taking video; he’d gotten a link to the forum almost twenty minutes ago. He’s itching to watch it. Based on what he’s seeing now, whatever happened must have been _spectacular_.

“I said I’d come get you,” he says, crossing his arms, slightly annoyed about the unauthorized movement. He wants Barton under his watch at all times for that.

“It’s okay. Dark and Brooding here made sure I got home safe.” Barton pats the Asset on the arm like they’re old buddies, and sits heavily in one of the spare chairs. His eyes fix on the main screen, where Banner’s face is displayed in all its glory.

The Asset waits patiently for his orders. Rumlow isn’t sure what to tell him, so he just directs the man to stay out of his way and turns back to Barton. “So,” he says, and Barton drags his eyes off the screen to him.

“So?” he echoes.

His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming. He probably has. Rumlow wishes he’d stuck around to see it. “So, did you learn your lesson?”

“I want to say yes,” Barton says, “but I’m not actually sure what you were trying to teach me.”

“That things can always get worse for you,” Rumlow says. “I told you last night—I’m doing you a favor by keeping you with me. If you don’t want what happened down there to be your permanent new status, then you’ll keep your head down, behave yourself, and stop doing stupid things when you _know_ they’re not going to help.”

“Ah.” Barton looks pale. “Well. In that case, yes. Message received.”

“Good.” Rumlow reaches out and thumbs over the bruise on his forehead. “How much did you piss them off?”

“Take a wild guess,” Barton says, flinching away from the touch.

Rumlow chuckles. “That much, huh?”

“You’ve got some questionable friends.”

“Mmm.” Rumlow pulls his hand back. “Well. You’ll be a good boy from now on, right?”

Barton offers him a bitter smile, but doesn’t answer beyond that. Instead, he nods up to the screen. “How goes the search?”

Rumlow scowls at the avoidance, but he drops it for the moment. “Slowly. You could help.”

“I could.” _But I’m not going to_ being the implied follow-up to that.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Nope.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Would I ever?” This is said with exaggerated innocence, like lying to Rumlow is the most ridiculous thing he could imagine.

Rumlow rubs his temples. He’s going to have an aneurysm at some point. “Barton, I swear to God…”

“I don’t know where he is,” Barton says. “And even if I could give you an exact address, I wouldn’t. You don’t exactly have a stellar reputation for keeping my friends safe and healthy.”

“I could take you back downstairs,” Rumlow threatens.

“You could,” Barton agrees, although his face goes pale at the words. “But it would be a big fat waste of everyone’s time, because _I don’t know where he is_. We weren’t buddies or anything. You want that, you should talk to Tony.”

A few feet away, the tech nods knowingly, like he was right all along. Rumlow reaches for his gun to shoot him before remembering he’s not carrying it.

“Don’t hurt the kid,” Barton says mildly, eyes tracking the movement. “He’s too young to know how easily annoyed you are.”

Rumlow growls and shoves his hand in his pocket instead. The tech looks terrified, which is somewhat gratifying. He ducks his head and goes back to his computer.

“Where is your gun anyway?” Barton asks. He winces as he sits forward in the chair. His hair is wet like he’s been in a shower, and a droplet rolls down his neck. He wipes it off. “You don’t usually walk around without weapons.”

“I left it in an office.” Rumlow casts his eyes back up to the screen, which is still crunching through various security cameras and scanning for Banner’s face. “Didn’t need it to kick your ass, and I didn’t want you grabbing it.”

Barton nods. He’s rubbing at his right shoulder again. Absently, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. Considering that he’s the poster boy for downplaying injuries, it must really be bothering him.

“They hurt you?” he asks, indicating the shoulder.

Barton gives him a well-practiced _you-have-got-to-be-fucking-joking_ look and says, “ _Yeah_ , Rumlow. They hurt me.”

Rumlow is about to yell at him for his little attitude problem when his phone chimes. He takes it out of his pocket and opens the video. “Damn,” he says, wincing. “That doesn’t look fun.” He holds it up to Barton. “Here’s your other compelling reason to behave.”

It’s Romanoff, of course. She’s naked, with a bag over her head, kneeling in front of a trough of water. Two guys are holding her already handcuffed arms behind her back while the third fucks into her, accompanied with a steady stream of dirty talk. The fourth one has a hand on the back of her head, and at a nod from the third guy, shoves her head into the water and holds it there.

Barton jumps up from his chair like he’s going to dive through the screen and kill them. Rumlow shoves him back into it. “Sit down,” he hisses, “and watch. Remember this is _your_ fault.”

“Tell them to stop,” Barton begs. His hand comes up and closes around Rumlow’s wrist. “ _Please_.”

“They already did this. It’s not live. You can’t save her from it with nice words.”

In the video, they let Romanoff up for air. Rumlow can hear the gut-wrenching coughing.

“Please,” Barton says, and there are actual tears in his eyes. It’s fucking perfect. “I won’t do it again, okay? I lost my head downstairs, you were right, it was stupid. But it was _me_ , not her, so tell them to leave her alone.”

“I won’t,” Rumlow says. “Because you don’t care what happens to _you_ , but you care very much about what happens to _her_.” He puts his phone away. “You know how this works, Barton. She’s my leverage. I could let them fuck you all goddamn day and you’d still come out the other side swinging. But as soon as she’s on the table—literally—you back down.” He pushes Barton against the back of the chair. “Friends and family make good pressure points. You know that better than anyone.”

Barton buries his face in his hands. Rumlow feels a thrill at the sight.

“She’s alive,” he says. “A little worse for the wear. But alive. And she’ll stay that way. How bad the in-between gets is up to you.”

There’s a muffled sound, like Barton’s saying something into his hands. Rumlow reaches out and tilts his head back. “Didn’t catch that, sweetheart.”

“I _hate_ you,” Barton repeats, and with his red-rimmed eyes and miserable face, he looks fucking beautiful for it.

“I know,” Rumlow says soothingly, feeling that thread of arousal trickle through him again. “And it looks damn good on you.”

Barton makes a low noise and pulls his head away. Rumlow lets him.

The tech clears his throat awkwardly. “Sir.”

“ _What_?” He’s going to kill this kid, he really is. Going to shove the keyboard down his throat and make him choke on it.

“We got a hit on one of Banner’s cards. In Albuquerque.”

“Albuquerque?” Rumlow says incredulously. He turns to Barton. “What the fuck is he doing there?”

“Making a left turn with Bugs Bunny,” Barton says. He looks up at Rumlow with a bitter, angry expression. “How the fuck should I know? For the millionth time, go talk to Stark.”

He’s right. They’re not going to get any further like this. Whoever helped set Banner up clearly knew what they were doing. Rumlow doesn’t believe for a second the man is in Albuquerque at all, at least not anymore. But like the SkyJack thing, it’s a lead they have to chase. So he sets the tech kid on both of those things, then grabs Barton’s arm. “Alright. Let’s go see Stark.”

Normally he’d drive, but given the tight timing of the situation, he calls up Sitwell and gets permission to take one of the Quinjets. 

“Sure. I’ll get someone to fly it,” Sitwell says. 

“No need. I’ve got a pilot with me.” Rumlow grins at Barton. “I’m sure he’d love to help me out.”

“Okay. Keep me updated, will you? Pierce is breathing down my neck about this.”

“Will do.” Rumlow hangs up. “Cheer up, Barton. You get to fly a jet for me.”

“Rather get something to eat,” Barton says. 

He does look a little wobbly. Rumlow’s hungry himself. He hasn’t eaten since the pizza last night, and he’s spent most of the morning on his feet yelling at people. “There’s usually a few MREs in the back. We can eat in the air.”

Barton makes a face, but doesn’t argue.

There’s a jet waiting for them on the roof. Rumlow seats Barton in the pilot’s chair, then rummages around in the back. The jet lifts into the air and heads north.

“You got two options,” Rumlow says, coming back up to the front. “Chicken chunks or…” he consults the second pack. “Beef goulash.”

“Oh God,” Barton says, sounding faintly disgusted. “Never mind.”

“Suit yourself.” Rumlow cracks open the chicken one. “This one’s not half bad.”

“Bad memories,” Barton says. “MREs and I don’t get along unless we really have to.”

“I can agree with that.” Rumlow takes a few bites, then asks, “So what happened in Italy?”

“What?”

“When Romanoff asked how you were. You said it was like Italy, but with less pasta. What happened in Italy?”

Understanding flashes over his face. “Oh, _that_. We were dealing with a local mob that had some toys they weren’t supposed to have. I played the hapless American tourist and got close to the boss’s daughter, to help plan our strike. Plan worked slightly better than anticipated.”

“How so?”

Barton shrugs. “She _really_ liked me. As in, she handcuffed me to her bed for three days. Nat had to break me out in the middle of the night so we could do the op. It was very embarrassing.”

Rumlow laughs. “You couldn’t figure out how to get out of handcuffs?”

“The handcuffs were easy. I couldn’t figure out how to get past the six armed guards outside her door without a weapon, or clothes, or backup. Especially since we were under strict orders not to kill or injure any of them.”

“Without _clothes_?”

“Yeah. It was a weird weekend. Good food, though.”

Rumlow chuckles. “Well. Sorry this doesn’t match up to that experience. I can take your clothes, if you want.”

“I’d prefer the pasta.” Barton’s tone is light, but his fists are clenched on the controls. Rumlow smirks at the sight and finishes his meal. 

“You can land at the Tower when we get there,” he says, and leans back in his chair to relax. 

An hour later, Barton is guiding the jet down to the landing zone. He shuts the engines down and lowers the ramp. Rumlow pats him on the shoulder. “Very nice. Let’s go.”

Jack Rollins is waiting for them as they step off the jet. “Good to see you, Rumlow.”

“Yeah. How’s Stark?”

“Behaving.” His eyes dart to the cuffs around Barton’s wrists and a smiles curves his mouth. “Nice bracelets.”

“Shove it up your ass,” Barton says. 

Rumlow smacks him on the back of the head. “Play nice,” he orders. “We’ve got a job to do here.”

Rollins waves them inside. Rumlow’s been here a few times, but the sheer size of it always manages to impress him. He immediately spots Stark at the bar. His back is turned, and he’s pouring himself a drink. The redheaded chick is next to him. Potts, or whatever her name is. She sees them walk in, and murmurs something to Stark. 

“Nothing stupid,” Rumlow says to Barton. “Right?”

“Right.” His eyes are distant, and Rumlow knows he’s thinking of Romanoff.

“Good. Don’t even talk to him. If I hear a word out of you, I’ll have Rollins put a bullet in Potts’s kneecap. Clear?”

Barton swallows. “Crystal.”

Stark turns around. “Legolas!” he calls. “How’re you doing?”

“He’s fine,” Rumlow cuts in. “Get over here Stark, we’ve got some questions for you.”

Stark saunters over with a glass in his hand. He looks at ease, but Rumlow can see the tight grip his fingers have, and how his eyes twitch over to where Rollins has moved by Potts. “How can I help?” 

“We’re looking for Banner,” Rumlow says. “And reliable sources tell us you have something to do with his disappearance.”

“What reliable sources might those be?”

Rumlow tilts his head at Barton. 

“Katniss,” Stark says, hand over his chest in mock offense. “Are you spilling my secrets?”

“He says you and Banner were close,” Rumlow says. “Was he wrong?”

Stark flicks his gaze over Barton. “We worked together,” he says finally. “Doing science things. Saving the world. The usual stuff. Why don’t we all sit down?” 

He moves down to the couches and sprawls out, looking for all the world like a man relaxing in his own home. Rumlow sits opposite him and indicates the floor at his feet. A muscle twitches in Barton’s jaw but he obeys, slowly dropping to his knees next to Rumlow.

“Kinky,” Stark comments. “So I guess the jewelry isn’t a fashion statement.”

“You’re a perceptive guy,” Rumlow says. “And no. He’s mine.”

“Didn’t take you for the type.”

“Guess we all have our secrets.” Rumlow leans forward. “Time to share yours. Where’s Banner?”

“How should I know?” Stark’s gaze is fixed on Barton. “You’re the one who lost him.”

“And you’re the one who helped him get away. Tell me how.” He puts his hand on the back of Barton’s neck. 

Stark takes a sip of his drink. “He doesn’t look good,” he says, indicating Barton. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Rumlow says. “He made a stupid choice, and faced the consequences for it.” Under his hand, Barton flinches slightly.

“Is he allowed to talk?”

“No. Tell me where Banner is.”

Stark sets his drink on the table. “I honestly don’t know,” he says. “I’d love to tell you. Really, I would. But I have no idea.”

“There’s no way he planned all this on his own,” Rumlow says, sliding his phone out of his pocket. “He had to have help from somewhere.”

“What makes you think I gave it to him?”

Rumlow sets off the cuffs. At his feet, Barton gives a sharp cry of pain and folds in half, almost knocking his head on the table. 

Stark jumps to his feet. “Stop!”

“Sit down,” Rumlow says, turning them off. “Unless you want to give Rollins an excuse.” He points up the stairs, where Rollins is holding his gun on Potts. The blood drains from Stark’s face, and he slowly sinks back to the couch. 

“Where’s Banner?” 

Stark looks like he’d love nothing more than to punch Rumlow, but he restrains himself with visible effort. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Well, I suggest you think long and hard about the possibilities, then. Unless you want Barton or your girl to pay for it.”

Barton pushes himself upright, and takes in a shuddering breath. He looks up at Stark, who stares back at him. Finally Stark says, “We set up a couple plans. For all the Avengers. Just in case things ever went wrong at SHIELD.”

Friends and family, Rumlow thinks triumphantly. Always good for pressure points. “Go on.”

“So yesterday when things went _very_ wrong, JARVIS sent him a code word.”

“Skyjack,” Rumlow says. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a book.”

“Never heard of it.” 

“It’s okay. I know reading is hard for you.”

At his feet, Barton lets out a quiet laugh. Stark grins too, until Rumlow turns the cuffs on again. “Let’s just get through this,” he says, as Barton picks himself back up a little slower this time.

Stark looks a little shaken. “In 1971, a guy named Dan Cooper hijacked a plane and stole two-hundred grand. Then he parachuted out. All the alphabet soup agencies came out to play, but no one ever found him.”

“What does this have to do with Banner?”

Stark shrugs. “Nothing. It was a book he was reading at the time. We figured it would make a good code word. Guy disappears into thin air and is never found? It was perfect.”

Rumlow puts his hand on Barton’s head, gently playing with his hair. It clearly unnerves Stark, although he tries not to show it as he goes on. “So we set up a plan. Everyone on the team gets the code word. That’s the cue to split. Everyone’s got different plans and places to go to.”

“What was Banner’s place?”

“I don’t know. All I provided was the money and IDs. Everyone picked their own destination and method of travel. It wouldn’t be much of a secret if we all knew about it.”

Rumlow considers all of this. “You must have had a plan to get back together.”

“Yeah. Everyone has a secure communicator. The agreement was one week after leaving, we all turn them on. One person randomly gets admin control, and messages the others a location and a date. We meet there.” He takes a sip of his drink, eyes on Barton again.

“It’s not very high and mighty of you all,” Rumlow says. “If things go bad, your plan is to run? That’s how you save the world?”

“It’s either that or get fitted for fancy jewelry, apparently.” Stark rubs his ankle, almost absentmindedly, and Rumlow notices the blinking black band around it. “I figured that if SHIELD went down to another organization, we’d be the first in line to go with it. And I was right.”

“So you run away instead of fighting. Very noble.”

Stark shakes his head. “Think what you want of us, Rumlow, but I’m not sure you can play the upstanding citizen card here. What did you do to Clint?”

“I told you. _I_ didn’t do anything.” He tightens his grip and pulls Barton’s head back, enjoying the bitten-off yelp of pain. “Did I, sweetheart?”

Barton looks at the ceiling and shakes his head as much as he can. 

“Rumlow,” Stark says, his voice dark. “Let him go.”

Rumlow loosens his hand and goes back to petting. “Where’s your communicator? You said you all had one.”

“I destroyed them yesterday, when JARVIS warned me you were all coming. Bruce has his, but that’s it. And it’s useless without the others. They operated on their own secure network. One-time use only, no way to access it from the outside.” He sounds proud of this. “He’s a smart guy, Rumlow. More than any of you give him credit for. He’ll pick up on what’s going on, no matter how much Hydra tries to hide it. You won’t be finding him.”

“I don’t believe you,” Rumlow says. 

“I’m sure you don’t.” Stark looks back over at Rollins and Potts. “But that’s the story.”

“You created the communicators?”

“I’m clever like that.”

“Then give us the frequency for them.” At the very least, they can set the techs to work. Banner might make a mistake and use the communicator later. “And his fake IDs, while you’re at it. All of them.”

Stark shakes his head. “No.”

“You say that like you think you have a choice.” Rumlow smiles coldly. “But since we both know that’s not the case, why don’t you just cooperate? Then I don’t have to hurt Barton, and Rollins doesn’t have to shoot your girlfriend, and everyone can leave here happy.”

Stark stands again. “If you even _think_ about touching her—“

Rumlow gets up as well and moves closer, preparing to tackle the man if he tries anything. “Stand down, Stark, or else—“

He’s cut off by a scream from Potts as Rollins grabs her, and then everyone is shouting at each other, and Rumlow is _really_ wishing he’d brought his own gun with him, if only just to get Stark to shut up for _one second_ —

“Tony!”

The word is sharp, authoritative, and it cuts through the noise like a knife. Silence descends on the room as everyone turns to Barton. He’s still kneeling on the floor, but there’s a determined set to his shoulders, and Rumlow decides to let him keep talking.

“Tony, give him what he wants.”

“Clint, you know—“

“ _Tony_ ,” Barton says, urgency wrapped up in the word. “Give him the damn frequency, okay? He means what he says and he _will_ hurt Pepper.”

Stark looks at Rumlow with hatred, then over to Rollins. His hands flex at his side, like he’s trying to summon one of his metal suits. Rumlow raises an eyebrow. “I’m waiting.”

“Fine,” Stark snaps. “JARVIS?”

The A.I. responds immediately. “I have the frequency and the identifications, sir. Where would you like me to send it?”

“Send it to the Triskelion,” Rumlow says. “We’ve got a team there.”

“Commencing transfer.”

“Okay,” Barton says. “Rollins, let Pepper go. _Now_.” 

Rollins sneers at him. “I don’t think so.”

“Do it,” Rumlow says. 

Rollins scowls, but loosens his hold on her neck. She pulls free and runs to Stark, who pushes her behind him like he can protect her. Like he’s worth anything without his armor. 

“There,” Barton says. “Everyone’s happy.” He looks at Rumlow. “No one needs to get hurt.”

Rumlow nods. “Barton just saved your girl’s life,” he says to Stark. “I suggest you thank him.”

Stark puts a protective hand on Potts’s arm. “Thanks, Legolas,” he says. 

Barton cracks a wry smile. “I take all thanks in the form of chocolate,” he says, and Stark chuckles weakly like it’s some kind of inside joke. For all Rumlow knows, it is. 

“Okay then,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Unless you have anything to share, I think we’ve got what we needed from here. Get up, Barton.”

“Hang on,” Stark says. “You just got here. You’re leaving already?”

“What, you want us to hang around? I’m touched, Stark. Didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t give a shit about _you_ ,” Stark says. “But _he_ looks like hell.” He points at Barton. “Give him twenty minutes to chill out and eat something. Guy looks like he’s gonna pass out any second.”

Rumlow turns around. Stark does have a bit of a point. Barton is wavering, even on his knees with a hand pressed against the couch to steady himself, and his face is white. Personally, Rumlow likes the beat-up look he’s got, but he can see why Stark would be concerned. And in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t hurt to allow him a short break. “Fine. Twenty minutes.”

“Great,” Stark says. He murmurs something inaudible to Potts, who nods and disappears down the stairs. “Clint, sit on the couch for a moment, would you? Let me take a look at those bruises. JARVIS, scan him. You got anything nasty you want to tell me about?”

Barton looks over at Rumlow, who waves a hand magnanimously. “You can talk to him.”

“I’m fine,” Barton says to Stark, heaving himself up to collapse on the couch. “I don’t need you to mother me.”

“Tough, baby bird, because I’m going to. JARVIS, bring it here.” He pulls a slim piece of glass from his pocket, then unfolds it into a larger screen. “Besides, you and I have very different definitions of _fine_. I am, of course, referring to Halloween night.”

“You said you wouldn’t talk about that,” Barton says, leaning his head back. 

“And I’m not. This is me, not talking about it. Not even mentioning it. The point is, you wouldn’t know _fine_ if it bit you in the ass. So stop bitching and let me put you back together.”

Barton lets out a tired laugh. “Okay.”

Rumlow watches carefully. He does not trust Stark, not any more than he trusts Barton, and he waits for a sign that he needs to take control of the situation. But all that happens is Potts returns with a sandwich, a water, and a first aid kit, and Barton eats while Stark covers him with band-aids.

Rollins drifts over while he watches. “Sorry you have to listen to that all day,” Rumlow says, indicating Stark, who is keeping up an endless chatter about absolutely nothing.

“He’s an annoying prick,” Rollins agrees. “But I’m out of here tomorrow. There’s a couple SHIELD bases not under our control. Sitwell asked me to help out.”

“Nice. Have fun.”

“Yeah.” Rollins smirks. “How’s your boy?”

“Worth it,” Rumlow says. 

“I saw the video. He looks good when he’s all messed up.”

Rumlow grunts in agreement and tunes back in to Stark’s conversation. Barton isn’t saying a lot in return, but he knows it doesn’t take much to pass coded messages. He’s still pretty sure there’s more to the thing Romanoff said before, and he makes a mental note to push it later. 

“You think he’s telling the truth about Banner?”

“No,” Rumlow says. “Or at least not all of it.”

Rollins cracks his knuckles. “I can work on him later. He gets real talkative if you put a gun to his girlfriend’s head.”

“I bet. Is that a house arrest monitor on him?”

“Yeah. Don’t want him down in the labs unsupervised. We made him destroy all the suits, but you know what a slippery bastard he is.”

Rumlow nods. “Well, if you think you can get something out of him, go for it. Show him the video of Barton and tell him we’ll do that to Potts if he doesn’t shape up.”

“Fuck yeah,” Rollins says. “I’d love to get my dick into that.” 

On the couch, Barton is finishing his sandwich. As soon as he puts the plate down, Stark reaches out and takes his wrist, examining a cuff. Rumlow steps a little closer.

“—them off?” Barton is saying.

“I don’t know. I had JARVIS scan them, I—“ he looks up at Rumlow and cuts himself off. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know.”

Rumlow shrugs. “Just want to make sure nothing illicit is going on here.”

“Wow, look who’s got a word of the day calendar. No, nothing _illicit_. Other than slavery and unlawful imprisonment.”

“Uh-huh. Get up, Barton. You had your break.”

“Hang on a minute,” Stark interrupts, but Rumlow’s had enough of this little scene. He steps forward and shoves Stark off to the side, then grabs Barton’s arm and pulls him to his feet. It’s the bad side, judging from the little “Fuck!” that spills from Barton’s mouth, but Rumlow doesn’t really care. 

“We’re going,” he says. “Now.” 

Barton’s hand comes up to pry his fingers off. “I can walk, asshole, I don’t need you to _drag_ me everywhere—“ 

Rumlow shoves him into the elevator doors. “Don’t get mouthy with me.”

Barton grunts as the back of his head bangs into the metal. “Don’t,” he says quickly, eyes over Rumlow’s shoulder. 

Rumlow turns, keeping Barton in his peripheral, and sees Stark halfway across the floor to him. Rollins has his gun out again, aimed at Potts, and Stark is glancing back and forth between her and the elevator.

“Tony, don’t. I’m okay.” Barton drops his hand. To Rumlow he says, “I’m sorry. Let’s go.”

He starts to step around, but Rumlow puts a hand on his chest. “No. We’re going out this way.” He hits the elevator button.

“Why?”

“Because we’re going for a little walk.”

Barton looks at him, then over at Stark, who has moved back towards the others. “We didn’t do anything,” he says quietly. 

“I’m not punishing you,” Rumlow says. “You have an apartment here, right? We’re going to get your clothes. I’m tired of you stealing mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I will,_ Rumlow vows to himself. He’s going to crawl under Barton’s skin, burrow into him so deep that they won’t be able to tell where one begins and the other ends. He wants his name carved into Barton’s bones, wants to climb inside that stoic exterior and pull apart the pieces, wants to see what exactly makes him _tick_ —

Barton’s apartment is, as he’d said, a shithole. They have to break in, since Barton doesn’t have his keys, but it’s surprisingly easy. Rumlow starts to make a crack about home security, but then he sees the inside, and the joke dies in his throat. The walls are peeling, the carpet is worn thin, and the scant furniture is the dictionary definition of ‘second-hand.’ A single flickering domed light illuminates the living room, which feeds directly into the tiny kitchen. Down a narrow hallway are two more doors and a barred window, which offers a great view of the bricks next door.

Rumlow turns slowly and takes it all in. “This is…”

“Don’t say it. It was cheap and that’s all I care about.”

“You actually live here?”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Barton brushes past him and into the kitchen. “What did you think I lived in, a bird’s nest?”

“Crossed my mind.” Rumlow looks at the threadbare couch. “If you have Avengers Tower, why do you still keep this place?”

Barton opens the fridge. “I don’t know. Like having my own spot, I guess.”

Rumlow can respect that. He wouldn’t want to live in the tower either, not with the A.I. constantly monitoring his movements, and Stark being a general nuisance. “SHIELD pays pretty well. You could afford something better than this.”

“Not all of us want to live in the lap of luxury, Rumlow.” He slams the fridge shut and throws something in the trash.

“What was that?”

“Leftover Chinese,” Barton says. “You can examine it if you want. I’d suggest a hazmat suit.” He picks a couple dishes out of the sink and puts them in the cabinet, then sets about washing the ones on the counter.

Rumlow leans against the wall and watches. Other than the visible mass of finger-shaped bruises, there’s really no indication of what happened to him in the basement. For all intents and purposes, Barton appears to be acting like his usual self. Rumlow wonders if he told Stark what happened, or if he’s just tucked it away. Most SHIELD agents are good at compartmentalizing trauma, but Barton is the fucking king of it. Even Rumlow’s seen some shit that left him a little fucked up, which is probably why he ended up joining Hydra in the first place. But nothing ever really seems to _get_ to Barton.

 _I will,_ Rumlow vows to himself. He’s going to crawl under Barton’s skin, burrow into him so deep that they won’t be able to tell where one begins and the other ends. He wants his name carved into Barton’s bones, wants to climb inside that stoic exterior and pull apart the pieces, wants to see what exactly makes him _tick_ —

“You’re staring again,” Barton says, still facing the sink.

Rumlow blinks himself out of his fantasies and realizes just how hard he is. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Dishes? I know it doesn’t look like it, but I do on occasion clean up around here.” He reaches up to put something away and his shirt rides up with the movement, revealing the base of his spine and shifting muscles.

Rumlow’s control, already tenuous, snaps.

He crosses the kitchen in a few steps. Barton barely has time to turn around before Rumlow crashes into him, pushing him back against the counter. Then he’s pressing his mouth to Barton’s in a rough approximation of a kiss, messy and breathless and wet, and Barton, clearly surprised, kisses him _back_ —

They break apart with a violence, stumbling over each other as Rumlow backs up and tries to make it all make sense.

“The fuck was that?” Barton breathes out, eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” Rumlow breathes back, and he really doesn’t.

He does it again. Winds his fingers in Barton’s hair and crushes his lips against his. Barton’s hands, still dripping with water and soap, grab at his waist for balance. He pulls off and drags his tongue down Barton’s throat, scrapes his teeth over pale skin, _bites_ at the smooth junction of his shoulder. Barton gives a low whimper and his hands push, but Rumlow is immoveable. _Inevitable_.

They break apart again, both breathing heavily. Barton is staring at him, his hand pressed against his neck. There’s a faint taste of copper on Rumlow’s tongue, and he feels that _desire_ again, that need to own him, to consume every part of him, to burn his name into the other man’s soul. The intensity of it is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

“Clothes,” he orders roughly, trying to bring some normalcy back to the situation, and Barton blinks.

“I—uh—yeah. Yeah. Okay.” He strips his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the table. He kicks off his shoes, and the pants, and then there is nothing in the way of Rumlow’s exploring hands except warm skin and scars. “What are you—“

“Shut up,” Rumlow tells him. “Turn around. Hands on the counter.”

“Romantic,” Barton says, and Rumlow slaps him on the ass. Barton jumps slightly and turns around, bracing himself on the counter. “Look, it’s been a rough day for me so do you think—?”

“I said _shut up_ ,” Rumlow says. He doesn’t have any lube with him, so he just pops two fingers into his mouth before sliding them into Barton. There’s a whimper, and a quiet string of curses. “Sore?” he asks, easing up a little.

“You could say that,” Barton says. His fists are clenched hard against the tile.

“Sorry.”

“If you were sorry—“ he bites off the rest with a pained groan and drops his head against his arms.

“If I were sorry…” Rumlow prompts, gently scissoring his fingers, rubbing his other hand over Barton’s back in a soothing manner.

“You’d stop.”

“Guess I’m not that sorry,” Rumlow says, and he pulls his fingers out. “But let me see if I can help.”

He kneels down and gently nudges Barton’s legs a little wider, then leans forward. As soon as his tongue makes contact, Barton jumps just like he did in the cell, and starts to twist around. “Stay,” Rumlow says, reaching up to push him back down.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Barton says, but he turns back to the counter. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to make this a little easier for you,” Rumlow says. “You gonna let me?”

“I—“ He stops sharply as Rumlow leans in again, sliding a finger in while he licks around the tight ring. “I just—“

Rumlow laughs and keeps going. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks lightly. “You ever get someone to do this for you?”

“None of your goddamn business,” Barton snaps. Rumlow laughs again. Slides his finger in a little more, crooks it right _there_ —

There’s a shout above him, and what sounds like a fist slamming on the counter, and Rumlow is absolutely _delighted_ by that response. He does it again, invigorated by the muttered “fucking _hell_ ” and the way Barton tries to move away, but has nowhere to go. _Inevitable,_ Rumlow thinks again, and he grins.

There’s a scrambling noise above him, and then something whacks him in the head. “Here,” Barton says, shoving it insistently at him. “Use—use this, please. Anything else.”

Rumlow takes the bottle from his hand. Some kind of oil. “Is this a knock at my skills, or—“

“ _Please_ ,” Barton says. “Just stop.” His other hand is tapping sharply on the counter. 

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Way to hurt a guy’s feelings,” he says, but he obligingly stands up and pours some over his fingers.

“Thank you,” Barton says, and he sounds utterly relieved right up to the moment Rumlow’s fingers slide back in. Then there’s another string of curses, and his head thuds against the tile once more.

Because he’s just so goddamn nice, Rumlow takes his time. He finger fucks Barton slowly, giving him time to stretch out, trying to hit the sweet spots to warm him up just right. When the muffled sounds start turning into quiet moans, he pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his dick. Barton lets out a little sound as he slides in, more aroused than painful, and Rumlow presses up against him. He yanks his own shirt off, wanting to feel skin instead of fabric, and starts fucking into him with slow, steady movements. “Touch yourself,” he murmurs. When Barton doesn’t move, Rumlow does it for him.

He loses himself in the sensations—the smoothness of the oil, the rhythm of his hips, the warm skin underneath his hand. He varies the pace, finds the spots that make Barton clench around him. Barton’s callused hands are splayed on the counter, tapping fingers curling under the onslaught of pleasure, and the glint of silver around his wrists makes the sight even better. Rumlow’s other hand slides up, wraps around Barton’s throat, applies a gentle pressure, and Barton _whines_ under his fingers, pushes his hips back into it—

Rumlow’s orgasm almost takes him by surprise. It’s not an explosion, or a series of fireworks, just a warmth in his stomach that spreads from his core to his toes and seems to melt him from the inside out. It takes everything he has to keep standing, keep his hand on Barton’s cock until he lets out a shaky breath and comes too, all over Rumlow’s hand. There’s no protest this time when Rumlow brings it to his mouth, just a quiet acceptance as his tongue licks over Rumlow’s palm.

There is a moment of peace where they stay together, both hazy with pleasure, but then reality reasserts itself. Rumlow pulls out and presses down on Barton’s spine, keeping him in place as he watches the mix of cum and oil slowly trickle out of his hole. _Mine,_ he thinks, trailing a finger through the mess. _You’re mine._

He grabs a kitchen towel and cleans them both off as best he can before letting go. Barton stays pressed down, his forehead against the off-white tiles on the counter. Rumlow tucks his dick back into his pants and picks up his shirt from the floor. “You okay?” he says, breaking the silence.

Barton clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “I…yeah.” He sounds…lost, almost, like he’s not really sure what just happened.

Well, he’s not the only one.

Rumlow leans over and picks up the discarded clothes. “Get dressed,” he says, dropping them on the counter by Barton’s head.

Barton nods against the tiles, then takes a deep breath and slowly stands upright, wincing as his back pops. “Fuck,” he says quietly, twisting to the side.

“Sorry,” Rumlow says, although he’s not really sure what for. “I was planning on doing that in your bed.”

This gets a bitter little half-smile. “S’okay,” Barton says, pulling his pants back on. He bites his lip, then says, “Not the worst place that’s happened today.”

No. Rumlow supposes it isn’t.

Barton drags his shirt back over his head and stuffs his feet back into his shoes. “I’m going to get more clothes,” he tells Rumlow. “From my room.”

“Fine.” Rumlow follows him down the hall. His legs are still shaking. He wonders if Barton feels the same as he does—a little bit strung out, a little bit high on what just happened—or if he’s already tucked it into the back of his mind.

_Can’t do that forever, sweetheart. Eventually I’m going to be everywhere you look._

The bedroom is tiny. There’s enough room for a bed, a dresser, and a radiator. The sheets have some kind of pattern on them—little arrows, he realizes, and he snickers at them. “Cute.”

“Birthday gift from Nat,” Barton says. “She thought it was hilarious.”

He slowly gets onto his knees and feels around under the bed. Rumlow tenses until he comes back up with a purple duffle bag, which he drops onto the pile of blankets. Then he unzips the bag, and there’s a hint of black metal and flash of silver.

“Shit,” Barton says, at the same time Rumlow says, “Back the fuck up.” He pushes Barton backwards, away from the bag. He’s already got his phone out, ready to set off the cuffs if he needs to.

Barton holds up his hands, palms out. “Easy,” he says. “I’m not touching them. I forgot they were in there.”

Rumlow investigates. There’s a Glock, a box of bullets, and a collapsible miniature crossbow with five arrows in a little bundle on top of it. He reaches in and takes them out. The Glock he tucks into his empty leg holster, and the bullets into his pocket. It’s not _his_ gun, but it’s nice to have the weight of a weapon back. The bow he tosses into the corner of the room. Barton makes a pained noise as it lands.

“That was expensive,” he says, looking at it forlornly. “Don’t _throw_ it.”

“Is that why your apartment sucks?” Rumlow asks. “Spend all your money on bows?”

“It’s a hobby. Can I continue?”

“Sure,” Rumlow says. He feels better with a gun in reach, and he’s marginally sure that Barton won’t try to grab it from him.

Barton works quickly, stuffing the bag with clothes without any hesitation. Not that his wardrobe really has a ton of options anyway. “Are you aware that almost everything you own is black?”

“I’m in an emo phase,” Barton replies, shoving some socks and underwear into the bag. “Excuse me.” He slides past Rumlow and over to a little closet, out of which he pulls a sweatshirt and a black jacket. The sweatshirt goes in the bag, and he shrugs the jacket on. “Okay. I just want some stuff from the bathroom and then I’m good.” He looks at the duffle bag, then says, “You know what? This is fucking weird, man.”

“What is?”

“I feel like I’m moving in. Or moving out.”

“Well,” Rumlow says. “You kind of are.”

“Moving in and being held captive are really two different things.” Barton pulls the jacket tighter around himself.

“If it makes you feel better, I can get you a room in the Triskelion’s basement.” Rumlow shrugs. “Food sucks, though. And you lose the pleasure of my company.”

At the mention of the basement, a look of fear crosses Barton’s face. He shudders. “No. I’m good. I’ll move in. Let me get my toothbrush.”

“Hold on,” Rumlow says. “Turn around. Put your hands on the wall.”

Barton presses his lips together. “Look—“

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Rumlow says. “I’m searching you.”

“Oh,” Barton says, and the relief is evident in his voice. “Why?”

“You had a gun and a bow in a duffle bag under your bed. I’d be stupid if I let you wear a random jacket without looking through it first.”

Barton turns and puts his hands against the wall. “You don’t trust me at _all_ , do you?”

“About as far as I can throw you.”

He touches the bruise on his head. “You can throw me pretty damn far,” he says, and Rumlow laughs. He pats down the jacket and comes up clean other than a pack of mints, which he tosses on the bed. “Okay. You’re good.”

“Great.” He picks up the duffle bag.

The bathroom is not big enough for two people. Rumlow stands in the hallway while Clint shoves his toothbrush and toothpaste into the bag, along with a thing of floss. “I hate dentists,” he says when he sees Rumlow’s smirk. “Ergo, I take care of my teeth.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Barton.” He spies a necklace dangling from the towel rack. It’s a cross, which is surprising. He didn’t think Barton was religious. He points at it. “Yours?”

“What?” Barton looks at it. “Oh, no. That’s Wesley’s. He must have taken it off to shower. I swear he leaves it on purpose sometimes. Like he thinks I’ll convert if I see it every time I piss or something.”

Rumlow raises an eyebrow. “Who the fuck is Wesley?”

“Wednesday Wesley. He’s only in the city at the beginning of every month. We get together on Wednesdays.”

“To fuck?”

Barton shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

Surprisingly—or maybe not—Rumlow feels a spike of jealousy. “How many guys have you brought here?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I keep tallies. Wes is the only ‘regular’, I guess. I’m more of a one-night stand kind of guy.” A wry smile crosses his face. “I told you you weren’t the first.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says. “You didn’t tell me you were such a slut, though.”

Barton’s face flashes with an emotion he can’t read. “Let’s go,” he says, grabbing the bag.

“Aw, did I hurt your feelings?” Rumlow steps back to let him out of the bathroom.

“Sticks and stones,” Barton says, walking past him. “I’m okay with my sluttiness. Life’s too short to be a prude.” He swings the duffel bag over his shoulder. “Are we taking the jet back?”

“Unless you want to do a three hour drive.”

“Ugh. Pass.”

“Jet it is. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For lighter reading, [Clint and Bucky flirt and argue about pineapple pizza](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004555)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They argue. They banter. They have quick conversations and trade insults and try to annoy the other to death. Then they go back to Rumlow’s apartment, and re-establish the status quo. Rumlow chains him back to the bed. And Clint spends the night staring at the ceiling until he falls asleep, thinking of anything that might possibly work to get him out of this.
> 
> So far, he’s got nothing. Not a single goddamn thing.

A pattern emerges.

Clint wakes up in Rumlow’s apartment, chained to Rumlow’s wall, in Rumlow’s bed. Sometimes there’s sex, sometimes not. The chain comes off and he gets dressed. Has a cup of coffee. Possibly convinces Rumlow to eat breakfast like a normal person.

They go to work. Clint sits in an office with Rumlow and does the busywork he’s given. Everything he touches is double-checked, so there’s little opportunity for sabotage, but he does his best. They train in the simulation room downstairs. They eat in the cafeteria, where Clint spends most of his time trying to ignore the sideways glances and whispers. Once he sees Swanson, and Rumlow has to threaten him with the cuffs before he manages to get himself under control. Swanson just smirks and waves.

They argue. They banter. They have quick conversations and trade insults and try to annoy the other to death. Then they go back to Rumlow’s apartment, and re-establish the status quo. Rumlow chains him back to the bed. And Clint spends the night staring at the ceiling until he falls asleep, thinking of anything that might possibly work to get him out of this.

So far, he’s got nothing. Not a single goddamn thing.

Jack Rollins is apparently in charge of putting down any SHIELD insurrections, and occasionally Rumlow is tasked to help him out. He doesn’t want to take Clint along for those, so at first he leaves him tied to a chair in Sitwell’s office. There are complaints, mainly from Sitwell— _he never fucking shuts up, Rumlow, don’t you dare leave him in here again_ —and after that, Rumlow locks him in a basement cell whenever he has to leave. Word gets around, and it doesn’t take long before a few interested parties come wandering along. Rumlow doesn’t stop them, but he doesn’t stop Clint from fighting either. It takes several broken bones and one death before they start bringing enough people to really subdue him.

Despite his little jealousy fit over Wes, Rumlow doesn’t appear to care that other people are fucking him. He actually seems to enjoy the way Clint looks when they’re done, utterly wrecked and covered in cum. Or maybe he just likes the pathetically grateful way Clint opens for him afterwards to re-stake his claim. He’s always gentle those times, all soothing hands and whispered words, and Clint hates how much he looks forward to that moment. Hates the way he nearly sobs in relief when Rumlow finally opens the door and kicks the rest of them out. Especially hates the way he doesn’t even try to fight those times, just does whatever he’s told with a defeated posture that seems to please Rumlow more than anything.

Clint’s always considered himself to have a pretty high libido, but Rumlow makes him look celibate by comparison. He’s constantly touching Clint, pulling him aside for fucks in the bathroom, or having Clint blow him under the table while he works on paperwork. He rarely tries to kiss him anymore, at least, or rim him, and only reciprocates when he’s feeling generous. Clint is pathetically grateful for that too. He already feels like a used whore, he doesn’t really want to be forced to enjoy it. Or worse, have it turn intimate like it did in his apartment. His skin still crawls at the memory of Rumlow’s tongue against him, and how he’d gotten hard from it. Had pushed back into it. Had wanted _more_.

And all of that makes him feel so _guilty_ , too. He knows Cap is going through hell, and Nat is probably dealing with worse. There’s no reason he should be feeling like this over some rough sex—especially not rough sex that he occasionally gets off on. He has _no_ right to feel like he’s suffering. His life is a fucking picnic compared to theirs. Even Tony has it worse than he does. Clint is attached to Rumlow’s hip, but at least he gets to move around beyond a few floors in the Tower. And Tony is cut off from his labs and his tech, which has to feel like an amputation.

So Clint shoves his feelings aside and just deals with it. _It’s a mission,_ he tells himself as he endures another round in the basement cell. _Treat this like a mission. Box it all up and deal with it later._ He’s good at that. His fucking middle name is repression.

He doesn’t get to talk to Nat again, although Rumlow will occasionally get pictures to show him. They’re not as shocking as the first few. She’s too bruised and too thin, but she at least isn’t actively being tortured in any of them. From what he’s gleaned from Rumlow, the original guy holding her, Wicker, was just a placeholder. She’s been moved away from him, somewhere else. Clint has his ideas where. None of them are good.

Rumlow doesn’t let him see the others either. He knows Tony is still kicking, because the search for Bruce is still on, and Tony is apparently helping to run it. Clint doesn’t know how they managed to convince him to do that, but he has ideas on that too. He can only hope that Tony is doing his genius thing and appearing to help without actually doing anything useful at all.

He gets bits and pieces of info on Cap. Rumlow refuses to tell him anything directly, but the other Hydra agents apparently don’t have the same hold-ups. They like to taunt him with second and third-hand rumors while fucking him— _Rogers bends over just like this too, he takes my cock almost as good as you do, you know they’re just using him like a fuckhole upstairs_. Clint just keeps his game face on and waits until they think he’s broken and not listening. That’s when the splinters of truth come out. Cap, wherever he is, is undergoing some kind of medical procedure. Lobotomy without brain surgery. Wiping, they call it. Frying his brain with some kind of machine. Emptying out what makes him Captain America so they can fill him with Hydra ideals and Hydra plans. They’re turning him into a weapon, just like Rumlow had said that first day. _Winter Soldier 2.0._

The worst part is, Clint doesn’t know what to do about any of it. His biggest problem isn’t lack of information, not anymore. He knows what’s going on. He knows where his team is, and their general status. He has a better grasp on the extent of the Hydra’s takeover. He has all the information he could possibly want.

He just can’t _do_ anything about it. He’s boxed in, hard, and Rumlow is too damn good at keeping him that way. Clint is allowed a certain amount of wiggle room—Rumlow likes it when he talks back, grins like a maniac when Clint tries to fight him off—but anything beyond his tolerance is met with swift and fierce punishment. Clint looks like a watercolor painting these days, all mottled with greens and yellows and fading purple bruises. Eventually, he just quits looking in the mirror.

Clint tries to get away twice. The first is when Rumlow begins locking him in the basement for his missions, and two Hydra agents come to try their luck. They’re younger, and cocky, and Clint knocks them both out with barely an effort. He makes it all the way to the lobby before someone gets in a lucky shot and tases him. Rumlow is _furious_. He beats the absolute shit out of Clint, then shoots one of the agents in the head. After that, they start coming in groups to his cell. No one wants to risk Rumlow’s wrath again.

The second time is more of an accident than anything else. They’re walking back from Capitol Hill after a meeting with Alexander Pierce, and a swell of foot traffic at the corner briefly separates Clint from Rumlow. The other man is looking down the street, distracted by the wail of an ambulance. Clint lets the crowd carry him, then ducks into an alleyway and hurries out the other side. He snatches an baseball cap from someone’s back pocket, trades his black jacket for a blue one, and vanishes into the mass of people like a puff of smoke.

He makes it all the way to his safe house. Stays there just long enough to grab his bag—fake ID, gun, change of clothes, roll of cash—and walks back out. The plan is to catch a bus to New York City, then try to contact Tony.

Clint never gets that far. He buys a ticket at the counter, sits on the bus, and just about jumps out of his skin when Rumlow drops into the seat next to him with a gleam in his eye and a menacing, “So where do you think _you’re_ going?”

The cuffs have trackers in them. He never really got away at all, they just let him think so, and Clint can hardly breath for the casual cruelness of that. To have had hope for a moment, only to have it ripped away with seven words—it's like a knife to the gut. He hates how he flinches away from Rumlow when the man looks at him expectantly, probably waiting for him to start grovelling. And horribly, Clint almost does. He honestly thinks about it for a moment, body shifting in preparation to get on his knees right then and there, and he hates himself _so much_ for that. So instead, he just gets up and walks off the damn bus, because he'd rather walk himself to his own execution than let Rumlow see how broken he is.

He suspects Rumlow is disappointed, but he doesn't say anything to Clint for the duration of the world's most awkward car ride. They go back to the Triskelion and up to a conference room. Rumlow ties him down in a chair facing the television. “Let’s watch something,” he says, pulling up a video, and then Clint can’t do anything but stare in horror as Natasha screams for his mistakes.

He looks away once, until Rumlow forces his head back and cheerfully offers a few suggestions for the men tormenting her. He keeps his eyes on it after that, barely even blinking as tears roll down his cheeks. She’s being tortured because of _him_. The least he can do is see the results of his stupidity. _My fault,_ he thinks despairingly, watching as the noose goes tight around her throat again, and her feet kick uselessly in their restraints. _I did this._

When it’s over, and the screen is frozen on an image of her hand nailed to a table with a knife, Rumlow unties him. He’s _gentle_ , which is the worst part. He draws Clint into his arms and murmurs in his ear about how he hadn’t wanted that to happen, and he was sorry it had come to this, and why did Clint insist on making choices that would only end badly for him? And despite recognizing the inherent wrong in those words, Clint curls into his embrace and apologizes. He’s sorry. Please don’t hurt her. He won’t do it again.

And he doesn’t.

He sticks to the pattern. Does what he’s supposed to. Rumlow says jump, he says _how high_. Tries to tell himself that he’s not beaten. He’s waiting. Watching for the right moment. This is a long-term mission, and he won’t earn himself any points for being rash. He tells himself this over and over, and can almost pretend that he believes it. Can almost pretend that there isn’t a small part of him wondering if this might, in fact, be the one time there isn’t a way out.

Then there is a break in the search for Banner, and everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short, but its a necessary transition. Next one will be up to my usual standards!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen up,” Rumlow hisses, forearm hard against Clint’s throat. “We’ve been over this shit before and I’m tired of it. You’re _mine_. Which means that if I want you to suck my cock in public, then you drop to your knees. If I offer you to Sitwell, you crawl over to him with a smile. If I tell you to strip naked and give your ass to the next person in this hallway, you fucking do it.” He lets go and steps back, watching coldly as Clint sucks air in and coughs. “I don’t care if you want to be a little shit about it,” he says, “but you _don’t_ get to say no. Am I clear?”

Clint grew up in a house, but not a home. 

There were doors and windows and ceilings. There were bedrooms and a kitchen and a family room by name, if not by use. It all had a shine to it, always immaculately clean, always ready for inspection. You could only see the shadow of the empty whiskey bottles if you knew where to look. Could only see the unhappiness if you lifted the hidden curtain that hung over them all like a raincloud. 

It was a house, but not a home, and so the first lesson Clint ever learned was how to run away. How to leave his father’s slurred words and his mother’s tears until he found something better to hold on to. But it was always temporary, and so the second lesson he learned was this—when all you know is running away, there is no such thing as home. 

The third lesson was the most important one, and it came at the hands of his own brother, brutally learned with the thud of a knife in his back: When all you know is running away, there is no such thing as home—and you are always, _always_ alone. 

And for years, those were his foundation. He walked the streets invisible, stepping to the rhythm of his beating truths: _You belong nowhere. You trust no one._

Then came SHIELD, and Coulson, and Natasha, and the Avengers. They chipped at him, knocked at his walls until he cracked a little under the pressure and found it wasn’t so bad outside them after all. Until he started counting exits for fun, rather than for fear of needing one. Until he slept with his gun on his nightstand instead of under his pillow. Until he said _see you at home_ to Nat one time, and realized afterwards that the word had made him feel warm instead of broken. 

But you never forget where you come from, and Clint had made running away an art form long before SHIELD ever picked him up. He knows all the secrets to vanishing. How to lay down fake paper trails. How to slip into a crowd and come out the other side looking entirely different. How to avoid cameras, and make use of blind spots. How to manipulate strangers and their sympathy. Coming to SHIELD had only upped his game, given him access to fake identities and safe houses and weapons. He has at least twenty of them spread out across the country. He no longer has one foot constantly out the door, but he is always ready to go. Natasha calls it paranoid. He calls it vigilant. 

_Clearly, one of us was right._

Bruce knows all of this too, because he’d asked Clint for tips one time. So Clint had sat him down with a PowerPoint presentation entitled _Disappearing for Dummies_ and shared all his favorite secrets. Clearly, Bruce had taken most of them to heart. The hit in Albuquerque had been a fake. Instead of Bruce Banner, they found a group of teenagers who’d given him a ride into the city. He’d left his wallet in their car, and they’d used the ID and the cash inside to buy alcohol. By the time Hydra showed up and got it straightened out, they were blind drunk and barely remembered Bruce’s face, let alone where they dropped him off. 

That had been the last anyone had seen of him. Despite Stark’s supposed help, and Rumlow’s intense canvassing, there had been nothing. Not a single peep. 

Privately, Clint thinks it’s hilarious. All of Hydra’s supposed might and power, and they can’t find one single guy. Sitwell is clearly frustrated. Bruce is the one wild card that Hydra can’t plan for. The SHIELD uprisings are dying down, but there’s at least still a small network of agents working and fighting back against Hydra. Picking up a brilliant scientist with a rage problem would be extremely beneficial for them. Assuming it hasn’t already happened.

The less hilarious part is that Sitwell’s frustration usually leaks down to Rumlow, and Rumlow’s favorite outlet for it is Clint. Which is why today he’s sporting a black eye and a split lip, and very quietly looking through reports of potential Banner sightings. He’s doing his best to be unnoticeable as Rumlow paces throughout the room, occasionally looking over a tech’s shoulder and snarling like a rabid dog at everyone who comes near him. 

The reports are all worthless. There’s an endless supply of mild-mannered curly haired men in the world, and offering a reward to find a specific one has just brought in a pile of useless crap. Not that he would raise the alarm even if he did find something. Rumlow is probably aware of that, but the busywork keeps Clint in the same room and out of trouble, so they both pretend that he’s actually looking at what he’s reading and not just turning pages. It’s just easier that way. 

Clint is in the middle of reading an extremely long and clearly fictional—if not entertaining—report from a homeless man in Seattle when there’s a burst of commotion from one of the sectors in front. “We got something!” someone yells, and Rumlow hurries over. 

“Look,” the tech says excitedly. “Right there. Camera has a sixty-four percent facial recognition match.”

Clint looks up. Sixty-four percent is good. Sixty-four percent is highly likely. Rumlow apparently feels the same way, because he grins and says, “Where?”

“Mumbai.” The tech’s fingers are flying over the keys. “Same place we had the frequency blip a few weeks ago. I’m rerouting the feeds through our cameras now. Gonna see if I can get a full view.”

“Good. Everybody else, let’s get eyes on this. I want traffic cameras, local feeds, cell phone videos, any goddamn thing we can find. What can we do about people?”

“We can have a surveillance team there in an hour.”

“We should confirm it’s him first,” another tech says. 

Rumlow whistles sharply. “Barton! Get over here.”

Clint contemplates ignoring him, but then his split lip twinges and he thinks better of it. He slowly gets up and walks over to the computer. “I'm not a dog, Rumlow. You don't have to whistle at me.”

“You know Banner,” Rumlow says, ignoring him. “Give us your expert opinion.”

“You have his picture right there,” Clint says, pointing to the screen. “What else can I tell you?”

“Patterns of behavior. Movement. Mannerisms. Does that look like him to you?”

Clint studies the feed. The man in question is the right height, the right build. He’s toying with his glasses, nervously shifting from foot to foot in a way that Clint recognizes instantly. _Bruce. You’re okay._

On the feed, a little girl runs up to him. Bruce’s tenseness melts away, and a familiar gentle smile takes its place. He kneels down to her level and presses something into her hand. An orange bottle. Medicine. _Just can’t stop being a doctor, can you?_ He wants to reach through the screen and yell at his friend for exposing himself, but the relief of seeing him alive and well is almost overwhelming. 

He swallows hard. “Could be,” he says. “I don’t know for sure.”

Rumlow is studying his face. Clint tries to school his expression into something more stoic. 

“See if you can get more confirmation,” Rumlow says to the tech. He grabs Clint’s arm and pulls him away from the others, out of earshot. “I get the feeling you know something you’re not telling me.”

“There are lots of things I don’t tell you,” Clint says. “Be specific.”

“You think it’s him, don’t you?”

“Why does it matter what I think?”

“Because I asked you, and you’re avoiding the question. You know I don’t like it when you lie to me.”

Clint scoffs. “I’m not lying.”

“No?”

“I said it _could_ be him. But it could also be someone else. Forgive me for not wanting to drop the wrath of Hydra on some poor dude whose only crime is to _look_ like Bruce.”

“It’s definitely him!” one of the techs shouts. “We have a ninety-one percent match.”

Rumlow smirks. “Looks like we don’t need your help after all, sweetheart.” He puts one hand on Clint’s chest and pushes him backwards until his back is against the wall. “Give me one second to deal with this, and then we’ll have a little talk about your attitude problem. Stay here.”

He goes back over to the computer. Clint watches with apprehension as they run through various problems, start scrambling a team, figure out how to draw him out. It doesn’t take long—they’ve had the bones of a plan for ages. They just didn’t know where he was. 

_And now they do._

Clint doesn’t really want to think about what they’re going to do if they actually manage to catch him. The thought of Hydra using the Hulk as a weapon makes him feel sick. And as scary as the Other Guy is, Bruce himself is just a nice, nerdy dude who’s way too smart for his own good. He’d give someone the shirt off his back if he thought it would help them. There’s no way he would hold up well to the kind of shit Hydra wants to do to him. 

Rumlow is on the phone, talking with an intense urgency of someone giving orders. His back is turned. It would be a good time to run, Clint thinks, if he had anywhere to run to. If he wasn’t wearing tracking devices around his wrists. He rubs absently at the smooth metal and puts his head back against the wall. _You’ll get out of here. You’re waiting for your moment, that’s all._

“Okay,” Rumlow says to the room, lowering the phone. “You all have your assignments. Sitwell’s coming down to run point on this. Do NOT lose him.” He turns to Clint and with a knowing smirk, gives another sharp whistle. “Come on, puppy.”

“I thought I was a tiger,” Clint says, moving to join him. “When did that change?”

“Cheer up,” Rumlow says, throwing an arm around his shoulders as they walk out of the room. “You’re going to see your buddy again.”

“I don’t want to see him. I want him to drop off the radar and live a long, Hydra-free life.” 

“Can’t always—“

“Get what I want, yeah, I _know_. You’re like a broken fucking record about it.” Clint shrugs the arm off. “Are you going to go get him?”

“Yeah. Have to get the containment system to him. Not risking a twenty-hour flight on his self-control.”

Twenty-hours. Flight there, flight back. At least a day on the ground. Meaning at minimum, three days locked downstairs, probably four. Christ, that’s a long time. He’s not going to get any sleep at _all_. He’s going to be lucky to be alive by the end of it. He wonders briefly if it’s worth trying to run again. If he can fight his way out and get the damn cuffs off, he can disappear. Then he can find Nat, rescue her, and then they can drop off the radar together. 

Rumlow is looking at him expectantly. Clint realizes he’s missed a question. “What?”

“I asked if that made you nervous. Guess that answer’s pretty clear.” Rumlow has that look in his eye again, that predatory glint that scares Clint more than anything else about him. Most of the time, Rumlow is fairly predictable. A little cocky, a little sadistic, a little cruel. Things Clint can deal with. But when he looks like this, the rules go out the window, and Clint has to tread _very_ carefully to avoid making things worse for himself. 

“Nah. Just leave me a book this time,” he says, forcing his tone to be light. “Gets boring down there between gangbangs.”

Rumlow bursts out laughing. He slaps Clint on the back. “You know what I like best about you, Barton? Most people in your situation would be a fucking mess by now. But you still find it in yourself to be a cocky little shit even after all this time.” He grins. “It’s cute.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“But you don’t have to worry about that. You’re coming with me.”

Clint blinks in surprise. “You’re taking me _with_?” 

Rumlow nods. “I think it would be a good idea for Banner to see a familiar face. Help keep him calm. Unless, of course, you’d rather stay here.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I want to go.” He knows he’s probably being too enthusiastic about it, but any chance to avoid the basement is a chance he’ll take. Even if it means being leverage for his friend.  


“Yeah?” Rumlow stops walking. “What’ll you give me for it?”

“I—“ Clint stops too. He looks at Rumlow’s expression, can read the intent behind it clear as day. “You just _said_ you’d bring me. This isn’t a transaction.”

“Consider it a thank you, then. For my unending generosity with you.”

Clint sighs. He knows what’s expected of him. “What do you want?”

The question makes Rumlow grin. Clint feels an urge to punch him. He hates asking that question. Hates being forced to ask it. Also usually hates the answer, because typically Rumlow only wants one thing.

Sure enough, his hand presses on Clint’s shoulder. “On your knees, sweetheart.”

“We’re in a hallway,” Clint says, gesturing around. It’s not a particularly busy one, but there’s definitely foot traffic. 

“What, are you shy? Pretty sure everyone here knows what the score is by now.”

It’s not worth an argument. Clint bites his tongue and gets on his knees. 

“Good,” Rumlow says. “Hands behind your back.”

“Oh for fucks sake,” Clint says, putting his hands behind his back. The cuffs engage and he grimaces. His shoulder is better, but it still aches when he’s restrained like this. 

“Don’t talk back,” Rumlow says, slapping him. It’s barely enough to turn his head, but it’s petty, and Clint hates him for it. 

“Sorry,” Clint mutters, steeling himself. It’s just a blowjob. He can do this.

Rumlow hooks a thumb in Clint’s jaw and gently presses down. “Open for me.”

Clint opens. Rumlow’s cock slides in. Clint keeps himself relaxed, although he gags a few times for Rumlow’s benefit. The other man seems to like the sound, and it typically gets the whole thing over with just a little quicker. 

Clint pulls back slightly, just enough to get some air, then goes down again. Makes sure to use tongue. Keeps an eye on Rumlow’s little reactions—the twitches, the whispered _fuck, Barton_ that slides out like a breath. Clint’s good at this, always has been. He used to enjoy it, too. Used to like bringing guys home and making them come apart in his bed. He wonders if he’ll still like it, when this is all over, or if sex will be too tied up with _this_ to be enjoyable anymore. Just another addition to the long list of things Hydra has taken from him.  


Rumlow thrusts forward, and Clint actually chokes a little, unprepared for the motion. “You look a little distracted,” Rumlow says, doing it again. “Am I boring you?”

Clint shakes his head and drags his tongue back up. Sucks at a spot that makes Rumlow curse quietly and rock his hips. “Nope. All here.”

“Yeah, you’d better fucking be…” He lets out a groan and winds his fingers in Clint’s hair. Pulls him forward with a vicious yank. Clint chokes again, his arms twisting in the cuffs, and tries to move away, but Rumlow just holds his head in place and gives another thrust forward. “Stay still, sweetheart.”

Eyes watering, Clint swallows around him and tries to adjust as Rumlow pulls him deeper. His nose brushes the soft curls around Rumlow’s groin. “Fuuuck,” the other man mutters, drawing back enough to let Clint gasp in a breath around him. “Not sure if I like this or your ass better, honestly.”

Clint is heavily focused on not choking to death, so he doesn’t really respond. But then there’s another pair of shoes in his peripheral vision, and a voice says, “Well, this is interesting.”

Immediately, Clint pushes back hard against Rumlow’s hand, managing to pull completely off him. He turns his head as much as he can and sees Sitwell staring down at him through those stupid clear-rimmed glasses. 

“Couldn’t get a room?” Sitwell asks, arching an eyebrow. 

“Nah,” Rumlow says. “He’s showing me just how thankful he is for bringing him along to get Banner.” He looks at Clint and gestures to his dick. “Although now I’m reconsidering. Get on with it, sweetheart."  


Clint scowls, but leans forward and takes Rumlow back into his mouth. Sitwell says something else that he doesn’t hear. Rumlow responds with a quiet voice, tightening his grip on Clint’s hair again. Not pulling this time, just resting there. Clint goes about his business, trying not to feel like a cheap whore as both men ignore him completely.

Finally Rumlow’s breath hitches and he moans, snapping his hips forward and coming hard down Clint’s throat. Clint’s ready for it this time, and he fights back the gag reflex as Rumlow buries himself deep. 

“There we go,” he mutters, riding out the orgasm with a few lazy thrusts. “Fuck, that’s good.” He lets go and Clint pulls back, letting out a couple wet coughs. He sits back on his heels and tries to catch his breath, eyes on Rumlow’s boots. 

“Well-trained,” Sitwell says. “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, he’s a good little cocksucker. You want a go?”

Clint snaps his head up. “Rumlow—“

Rumlow slaps him. Not too hard, but enough to rock Clint to the side. “I’d suggest you shut up,” he says. “Unless you want your little field trip to be cancelled.”

Clint slowly pulls himself back upright. He glares at Rumlow, but presses his lips together and stays silent.

“Good boy,” Rumlow says, adjusting himself back into his pants. “How about it, Sitwell?”

“Tempting,” Sitwell says. “But I have other things to do at the moment. As do you. I’d suggest you get to them.” He smirks down at Clint, then deliberately steps around him and continues down the hall. 

Clint lets out a little sigh of relief and looks up at Rumlow. Rumlow looks back at him, eyes hard, and Clint has just enough time to think _oh shit_ before he’s being pulled to his feet and shoved into the wall. 

“Listen up,” Rumlow hisses, forearm hard against Clint’s throat. “We’ve been over this shit before and I’m tired of it. You’re _mine_. Which means that if I want you to suck my cock in public, then you drop to your knees. If I offer you to Sitwell, you crawl over to him with a smile. If I tell you to strip naked and give your ass to the next person in this hallway, you fucking do it.” He lets go and steps back, watching coldly as Clint sucks air in and coughs. “I don’t care if you want to be a little shit about it,” he says, “but you _don’t_ get to say no. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Clint rasps out, glaring up at him. _Someday, I’m going to fucking kill you._

Rumlow unlocks the cuffs. Clint slowly shifts his arms in front of himself and takes in a ragged breath. He’s so tired of this. 

“Alright,” Rumlow says. “I need to call up the team and get things ready. You gonna be good, or do I need to put you downstairs while I work?”

“No!” Clint says quickly, too quick to hide his fear, and winces at the smirk on Rumlow's face. “I can…I’ll be good.”

“See that you are.” Rumlow starts walking down the hall, and after a moment, Clint pushes himself off the wall to follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He puts his back to the capsule and eats slowly, using the time to check out the rest of the team. Clint recognizes some of them—Gibson, Jones, Smith, Lopez. A few others. The rest he knows by sight, if not by name. Almost all of them are former STRIKE team members. He’s gone on missions with some of them. It’s alarming, really, thinking of how long Hydra’s been growing through SHIELD. He wonders how many of his missions were double intentioned—working for Hydra’s plans instead of SHIELD’s. Wonders if anything he did really ever made a difference.

Twelve hours later, they’re ready to go. Rumlow has pulled together a team of twenty, and they all pile into the back of what is probably a retired military cargo plane. According to Rumlow, Stark had bought it, redesigned it, and then tossed it to SHIELD. Or rather, to Hydra. A massive container, similar to the one that held Loki on the Helicarrier, is brought aboard with them. Rumlow deposits Clint in the pilot’s seat and says, “You’re flying.”

“I’ve never flown one,” Clint says, looking around the cockpit.

“Figure it out.” Rumlow moves back to help the rest of the team. Clint sighs and starts familiarizing himself with the controls. He’s been in similar planes before, and with Tony’s redesign, it actually looks a lot like the Quinjet cockpit. So it can’t be _that_ difficult. He digs around until he comes up with a manual and a pre-flight checklist, wishing that Natasha could be his co-pilot. He can’t remember the last time he flew without her.

But this time his co-pilot is the Winter Soldier. Just before takeoff he comes stalking up the ramp, followed closely by two or three other guys who look nervous as hell to be around him. He walks around the giant container meant for the Hulk, past the rest of the team, and sits himself into the right-hand seat.

“Hey,” Clint says.

The Soldier looks over at him like he’s surprised to see him there. His mouth opens, like he’s about to say something, or maybe he's trying to remember something to say. _Pretty eyes,_ Clint thinks again, his gaze drifting to the slightly parted lips. _Pretty mouth too, I’d like to–_

He quickly derails _that_ train of thought and clears his throat. “I’m Clint. We’ve met.”

“Clint,” the Soldier says, his voice soft. “Right.”

Rumlow comes up behind him. “We’re ready,” he says. “Raise the ramp up.”

The Soldier punches a series of buttons, and the ramp starts to raise. As soon as it’s secure, they taxi the plane onto the runway.

“You should sit down,” Clint says to Rumlow.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t blame me if you fall over.” Clint looks over at the Soldier. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

He kicks up the engines, and the plane rumbles towards the end of the runway, eventually making a laborious climb into the air. Clint pulls the nose up a little more sharply than he needs to, and listens with a grin as Rumlow is forced to grab onto the bulkhead to keep from falling.

They climb to cruising altitude and set a course for Mumbai. It’ll be a little closer to fifteen hours, not twenty, but Clint is still glad he’s not in the cell. He can only imagine being left at the mercy of Swanson and his buddies for three days. At least here he gets a break.

Beside him, the Soldier relaxes into his seat. Well. Not _relaxes_. Looks less edgy, anyway. He reaches up with the gloved hand to brush his hair out of his face, and Clint suddenly has the urge to do it for him.

_Get a fucking grip,_ he tells himself. _Nothing is going to happen, so stop thinking about it._

Still, he glances sideways. He’s always had a thing for dark, broody guys, and the Soldier definitely ticks all the right boxes. Pretty eyes, soft lips, good jawline, hair that Clint could work his fingers into.

The Soldier shifts slightly and says, “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me.”

Clint feels guilty, suddenly. He _hates_ it when Rumlow stares at him, he shouldn’t do it to other guys. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then the Soldier says, “I don’t mind.”

It’s barely audible, like he doesn’t mean for Clint to hear. His eyes flicker over, then back out the front.

_Huh._

Rumlow drops a hand on his shoulder, making him jump slightly. “How’s it looking?”

“Fine. On track. No surprises.” Clint looks up at him. “Did you fall over?”

“Knock it off. Come back here.”

“I’m flying the plane.”

“Let Frankenstein fly it.” His hand tightens. “Come on.”

Clint looks at the Soldier, who is staring straight ahead. “You okay on your own here?”

“He’s fine,” Rumlow says. “He’ll do what he’s told, unlike you.” He pulls, and Clint winces as his shoulder throbs in protest. With one last glance at the Soldier, he extracts himself from the pilot’s seat and follows Rumlow into the cargo area.

It’s surprisingly not as noisy as he thought it would be, given the massive engines needed for the plane. He’s grateful for that—previous experiences in cargo planes always involved a lot of shouting. At least in this one they can talk normally. The containment capsule is in the far back by the ramp, pushed out of the way to make room for the team. They’re comfortably sprawled out, leaning against walls or bags, talking and cleaning weapons. Rumlow directs Clint to a place over by the capsule and pushes him down to the floor. “Sit.” He digs through his bag until he comes up with a brown package, which he shoves at Clint’s chest. “Here. Eat.”

Clint flips the MRE over. Spaghetti. Not the worst he’s ever had. “Thanks.”

He puts his back to the capsule and eats slowly, using the time to check out the rest of the team. Clint recognizes some of them—Gibson, Jones, Smith, Lopez. A few others. The rest he knows by sight, if not by name. Almost all of them are former STRIKE team members. He’s gone on missions with some of them. It’s alarming, really, thinking of how long Hydra’s been growing through SHIELD. He wonders how many of his missions were double intentioned—working for Hydra’s plans instead of SHIELD’s. Wonders if anything he did really ever made a difference.

“So what’s the plan?” he asks, pushing the thoughts away. He doesn’t need to spiral down that rabbit hole. “With Bruce, I mean.”

“I’ve got a team tracking him,” Rumlow says. “We know exactly where he is. We’ll get to his little hide-out. Then you get a chance to shine.” He tosses a data pad at Clint, who awkwardly catches it with one hand. “You’re gonna show him what’s on there, and you’re going to convince him to come with us calmly.”

Clint opens the pad. It’s a live stream video of a dark-haired woman pacing in a cell. She’s dressed in an orange jumpsuit and appears to be arguing with someone off-camera. She’s vaguely familiar, like he’s seen a picture of her somewhere, but he can’t recall exactly. Clint watches for a moment, then looks at Rumlow. “Who is that?”

“Elizabeth Ross,” Rumlow says. “Old girlfriend of Banner’s. We picked her up a few days ago.”

“For what?”

“What do you think, Barton?”

Clint feels sick. _Pressure_ _points_. “So what, I show him that and he comes with me, no fuss?”

Rumlow takes the pad back. “That’s plan A.”

“And plan B?” Clint points at the pad. “What if he sees that and Hulks out?”

“Don’t worry about plan B. If things go wrong, you just duck and cover. We’ll take care of it. Stark’s got a few toys we can borrow.” He looks positively delighted about this, and Clint feels a swell of worry.

He sets the rest of his MRE to the side. He’s not hungry anymore. “I’m going back up front.”

“Stay.”

“I have to fly the plane, Rumlow. It’s a two person job. Do you _want_ to crash?” That’s not really the case, but Clint is pretty sure Rumlow doesn’t know enough about planes to contradict him.

There’s a beat of silence, and then an irritated, “Fine. Go.”

Clint leans over and snags the energy bar from the MRE. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, and goes back up to the cockpit. The Soldier doesn’t move as he crawls back into his seat. “Hey,” Clint says. “Everything okay?”

“Minor course correction required.” the Soldier says, his tone clipped and professional. “No other problems.”

“Great. You hungry?”

“Nutrition was last received twenty hours ago. I am still functional.” This is delivered in the same tone of voice, and it bothers Clint that he thinks of himself as just another piece of equipment. It’s extra concerning, because whatever they did to him is what they’re currently doing to Cap. Clint wonders if there’s anything left of whoever the Soldier originally was. If there’ll be anything left of Cap.

He shakes his head. “Got this for you. You can have it whenever.” He tosses the bar in the Soldier’s lap.

The Soldier looks down at it, and a strange look crosses his face. He picks it up with his flesh hand like he doesn’t know exactly what it is. Hell, maybe he doesn’t. Clint doesn’t know what “nutrition” is for him. But twenty hours is a long time. He might be _functional_ , but there’s no way he’s not hungry.

The bar disappears into a pocket, and the Soldier says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They lapse into silence again. The Soldier occasionally glances over at him, something like confusion behind his eyes. Like he’s waiting for Clint to turn on him, to demand the bar back, or do something else heinous. It hurts to think about, really, because he’s been there before. Clint knows what it’s like to not trust anyone or anything around you. Would _still_ be like that, if not for a few people who were determined to show him otherwise. It had taken Coulson _years_ to establish that bridge, and even longer before Clint had fully gotten on board. He still doesn’t trust easily. But he at least has people. The Soldier is alone.

Clint pulls out a map and checks their navigation. “Course adjustment,” he says to the Soldier, who seems relieved to have something solid to do. They spend some time plotting, then making the necessary changes. Clint shows him a few navigation tricks, which the Soldier picks up quickly. It’s not as _easy_ as flying with Natasha. But it’s still nice. Definitely better than hanging out with Rumlow.

The moment is ruined when someone’s unwelcome head sticks into the cockpit. “How’s it going up here?” Jones asks.

“Fine,” Clint says, not turning to look. He can’t stand the guy. They’d worked together once on an assignment. Afterwards he’d gone to Coulson and told him in no uncertain terms that if they ever worked together again, he’d put a bullet in Jones’s head and never look back. Clint isn’t an idealist, but he generally believes in the principles of SHIELD and does his best to be the good guy. Jones dances far too close to the edge of psychopathy for his taste. “You can leave now.”

“I don’t want to.” A hand settles on Clint’s shoulder. Clint bites his tongue and resists the urge to break a finger or two. “Gotta say, I’m surprised he let you out to play. Really disappointed one of my buddies. He was looking forward to having a turn downstairs.”

Clint can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be another time.”

“Yeah, there will be.” The hand slides over to the back of his neck. “I’ll make sure of it. You look damn good on your knees.”

Clint pulls away from the touch. “Leave me alone, Jones.”

“No, I don’t think—“

There’s a sudden flash of silver and a choking noise, and then Jones is scrabbling at the metal hand wrapped around his throat as the Soldier lifts him into the air. The Soldier examines his purpling face with mild interest, like he’s a particularly ugly bug. Then he drops him to the floor with a heavy thud and says, “You should go.” It’s not really a suggestion.

Jones scrambles out of the way, back into the cargo area. Clint can hear him coughing as he goes. He looks at the Soldier, who is already sitting back in position, eyes forward. There’s a hint of satisfaction on his face. Like he’s been wanting to do that for a long time.

“Thank you,” Clint says quietly.

The Soldier nods. Nothing more is said about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> TW for the next chapter, because it contains a long and brutally graphic rape scene. And I mean it's _brutal_. I know we've already had one of those, but honestly I think this one is worse, and so I'm warning you about it now. I will try to remember to recap it at the bottom in the notes for anyone who wants to skip it.
> 
> See you Sunday.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His legs retreat without his permission. “You brought me here to help with Bruce,” he says to Rumlow, and he can’t help the little tinge of panic that leaks into his voice. He’d stupidly assumed that being out of the cell meant a respite from the others. A chance to breathe. He wasn’t naive enough to think Rumlow would leave him completely alone, but he’d hoped the mission would at least distract him enough to give Clint a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary at the end if you need it.

Several hours later, Clint is dozing in the chair. Not really awake, but not really asleep either. He occasionally blinks himself to full consciousness to check the controls, then goes back into his stupor. Usually he and Nat will take turns doing this on long flights, but when he offers the idea to the Soldier, he just gets a clipped, “I do not require rest at this time.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and he settles back into his chair.

Two minutes later, a hand lands on his shoulder. He jumps hard, startling himself fully awake. Behind him, Rumlow laughs. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Then don’t fucking sneak up on people, asshole.” Clint takes a deep breath. “What do you want, anyway?”

“Come back here.”

“I’m busy.”

“ _Now_ , Barton.”

Clint scowls and clambers over the seat. He has no illusions that the Soldier will help him this time. Jones was a low-level asshole. Rumlow’s the top dog.

He takes a few steps into the cargo area, then freezes in his tracks. About half the team is sleeping, tucked away into their various corners. The other half is not. Ten guys are standing in a loose semi-circle, all chatting quietly with each other. There’s an air of tension, of excitement. He can see it in their postures and the tight way they glance over at him.

His legs retreat without his permission. “You brought me here to help with Bruce,” he says to Rumlow, and he can’t help the little tinge of panic that leaks into his voice. He’d stupidly assumed that being out of the cell meant a respite from the others. A chance to breathe. He wasn’t naive enough to think Rumlow would leave him _completely_ alone, but he’d hoped the mission would at least distract him enough to give Clint a break.

“I brought you for lots of reasons,” Rumlow says. He moves closer, and Clint steps back. The oldest dance in the world. “Partly because I need your help with Banner. Partly because I wanted to keep a personal eye on you.” He steps again, and Clint’s back hits the wall behind him. “And partly because I knew the boys would want some entertainment along the way.”

“This isn’t fair,” Clint says. _Please don’t do this to me._

“Life’s not fair, sweetheart.” Rumlow reaches out and puts his hand along Clint’s jaw. His thumb gently presses into a bruise, and Clint flinches in pain, too rattled to control his reactions. “If life were fair, do you think you’d be here right now?”

Clint tries to pull his head away. “I’ll fight them,” he says. “I don’t care what you do to me, I’m not just going to let them—“

“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” Rumlow says, his voice low and dangerous. “Because you know what happens otherwise.”

Clint closes his eyes, feeling the burn of tears starting. He’s so _tired_ of this. “It’s not _fair_ ,” he says again. “You said—“

“I said you were coming with me. You’re the one who read into that. Not my fault.” He takes his hand away and steps back. “But I’ll give you a chance. You can fight them. I won’t stop you.”

Clint stares at him in disbelief. “You won’t?”

“Nope.” Rumlow is grinning. “No cuffs, no weapons. Just a good, old-fashioned brawl.” He holds his hands up, palms out. “I won’t even get involved.”

“What about Natasha?”

“Off the table, for now.”

It’s a trap. It has to be. Clint clenches his jaw, then says, “What’s the catch?”

Rumlow puts a hand on his chest in mock offense. “You think so little of me, don’t you?”

“You haven’t really given me a reason to think otherwise.”

“Mm. Fair.” Rumlow shrugs. “No catch. Not this time. You can fight. Of course, you might make them angry. Which would make things worse for you in the long run. I won’t let them do anything _permanent_ , but there’s lots of things that can happen to a guy with damaging him completely.” He smiles, all faux-friendly. “If it gets to be too much, you can always ask me for help. I might be obliging.”

_In your fucking dreams._ Clint swallows. “And if I don’t fight?”

“Then I suspect they’ll be in a slightly better mood, won’t they?” Rumlow shrugs again. “It’s up to you. You’re a smart guy. I’ll let you decide.” He steps away completely, clearing the path to the others. It’s not like in the cell, where most of his visitors are just run-of-the-mill agents. These are the STRIKE team members. The best of the best.

It’s hopeless. Clint knows it is. His fighting has gotten considerably better in the past few weeks, given how often he’s been doing it. But even if he was the best in the world, he’s one person against ten. He can take down one for sure. Maybe two. Three would be pushing it. Ten is just suicidal. Ten of these guys is especially suicidal.

He looks over at Rumlow. For all the bluster of “make the right choice,” he knows exactly what Rumlow wants to see. _You look so pretty when you’re suffering._ Rumlow wants him to fight just to see him lose.

For half a second, Clint considers giving in to them out of spite. He can disassociate with the best of them; God knows he’s had plenty of practice at it by now. He could just let them have him, zone out, and deprive them of their fun. He’s a survivor. He can take what they throw at him.

But he’s sick of it. Sick of being a goddamn punching bag for every sexually frustrated prick who comes around. If his friends’ lives are off the table, and Rumlow isn’t going to stop him, then this might be the best chance he has. He’ll lose, but he at least he’ll go down swinging. Who knows, maybe if he puts in enough of a fight, he’ll convince them he’s not worth the trouble.

It’s barely a sliver of an already slim chance. But it’s the best offer he’s gotten in a long time.

His mind is still whirling with all of this as Rumlow pushes him forward, sending him stumbling into the circle. Clint turns slowly, taking them all in. Thinking. Planning.

Gibson is the first to talk. Tall and broad, he’s built like a brick house and has the personality of a deranged pitbull. He bares his teeth in something that could potentially be called a smile, if you’d never seen one before. “You know what we want,” he says.

“I got a pretty good idea, yeah,” Clint says, still turning.

“Good,” says another voice. Lopez. Another “friend” of Clint’s. “You planning on behaving? We can make this nice for you, if you’re a good little whore for us.”

Clint doesn’t answer. Unbidden, his eyes flicker over to Rumlow, who is lounging against the wall. He raises his eyebrows at Clint and makes a little gesture. _Get on with it, sweetheart._

Clint takes a shaky breath and reaches for his jacket zipper.

“That was easy,” Jones says, laughing. “Maybe you do want this after all. I always thought you were begging for it.” He comes a little closer. Clint slides his left foot backwards, gets himself ready. _Come on, asshole. You know you want it._ He finishes unzipping his jacket and slowly shrugs it off, dropping it to the side.

Jones takes another step. “That’s right, baby. Give us a show.”

Clint meets his eyes. Lets a cold grin spread across this face. “Planning on it,” he says, and he punches Jones right in the throat.

It’s a good hit. Probably one of the best he’s ever thrown. He feels all kinds of vulnerable things cracking and snapping under his fist. Jones immediately collapses with a choked noise and Clint spins, kicking another one of them in the knee. The guy screams and Clint follows it up with a blow to the side of the head. _Two down._

Unfortunately, the element of surprise is gone. The other eight regroup and converge on him. None of them are armed, which means there’s no guns for him to grab. He ducks the first set of gripping hands and twists, slamming an elbow into someone’s chest. There’s a loud “Fuck!” and the guy stumbles backwards with a gasp, trying to drag in air. The others close in.

An arm comes around Clint’s neck in a chokehold. “I thought you were gonna be nice,” Gibson whispers in his ear. “What’s this shit?”

Clint doesn’t spare an answer. Gibson’s arm is clenched around him in a familiar move, putting pressure on his carotid arteries. He can already feel the lightheadedness setting in, and the panic of it starting to roar in his chest—

Natasha’s voice calmly echoes in his mind. _Step to the side._

He steps to the side.

_Groin._

He slams his left fist down, nailing Gibson in the groin. The other man shouts in Clint’s ear and curls forward automatically—

_Elbow._

As he comes forward, Clint drives his elbow up and back slightly. It get Gibson right in the chin and his head snaps backwards, his hold loosening for half a second. Immediately, Clint grabs his arm, plants his back leg, and twists. Gibson loses his balance and falls to the ground with another shout of pain. Clint pulls his leg out of the way and moves out of reach.

_Three down._ Not permanently, but for the moment. For the moment is good.

The others are definitely pissed now, and they tighten the circle around him. Clint’s heart is hammering, he’s already winded. There is no fucking way he’s going to win this.

“You like making things hard for yourself, don’t you?” Lopez asks. He’s grinning, like this is the most fun he’s had in ages. It probably is.

Clint spits at him. “If you want it,” he says, baring his teeth. “Come and fucking get it.”

So they do.

He manages to take out two more. He hits one in the neck, and apparently gets something important because the guy drops like a stone. Another one he manages to shove into the plane bulkhead. More by luck than design, the guy’s head whacks a piece of metal and he falls to the ground with a dazed expression.

_Five,_ Clint thinks, gasping in air. He’s running hard on adrenaline but he can feel it ebbing away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The others know it, too, and they press the advantage. Lopez steps in close, dodging Clint’s first punch. He catches the second and twists it, spinning Clint and yanking his arm up high behind his back.

Clint struggles, but Lopez just pushes him forward two easy steps. Then he’s face-first into the bulkhead, Lopez’s body pressing against his. He can feel the erection grinding into his ass. “Don’t,” he grits out. “Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” Lopez asks. “Who’s gonna stop us?”

He grabs Clint’s shirt and tightens his grip on his arm, then turns and _throws_ him into the center of the plane. Clint doesn’t have a chance to get his balance. He hits the ground hard and rolls, ending up on his back. He lays there for a moment, gasping in an attempt to fill his lungs.

A boot comes down on his chest. Clint grunts in pain and reaches up to grab at it, but it presses down harder. “Hands _off_ ,” someone says.

He drags in a ragged breath against the pressure. Smith grins down at him as the rest trickle over. There’s six of them, including Smith. The one he kicked in the knee is back up, but the other four that he managed to drop are still on the floor. Jones is dead, he’s pretty sure. His eyes are open, but they’re not seeing anything. Gibson is still on his back, but he’s slowly moving. The other two are motionless except for the steady rise and fall of breathing. Unconscious, but alive.

“That was a good fight,” Smith says. “I’m almost impressed.”

“I’m pissed off,” says the guy Clint elbowed in the chest. “That fucking hurt.”

“Ah, stop being such a pussy.” Smith presses down harder, grinding his heel into Clint’s sternum. “Besides, you like it when they fight.”

“He killed Jones,” someone else says.

Clint wheezes out a laugh. “Oops.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Another boot presses against his throat. He tenses, but it just rests there. Threatening.

“Easy,” Rumlow says mildly from the corner. “Don’t kill him.”

Smith leans forward. “Oh, we’re not gonna kill him.” He smiles coldly. “We’re just gonna hurt him a little.”

“Or a lot,” someone chimes in, and they all laugh.

The boot disappears from his throat. Clint sucks in a breath and pushes at Smith’s foot again, but it doesn’t budge.

Lopez kneels by his head. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “Barton. Look at me.”

Clint ignores him. Keeps pushing. Lopez sighs and reaches out to turn his head. Without thinking, Clint snaps at his fingers.

The others laugh as he yanks them back with a loud, “Mother _fucker_!”

“You didn’t tell us he was a biter, Rumlow,” someone calls. Miller, it sounds like.

Rumlow shrugs. “He doesn’t bite me.”

“Don’t touch me,” Clint snarls. “I’m going to kill you, you fucking assholes, every single goddamn one of you, gonna pull your fucking eyes out and make you _eat_ them—“

He goes on until Lopez’s hand wraps around his throat and squeezes. Lopez holds it for a long moment, until the burning in Clint’s lungs increases to the point where he starts to struggle. Then he lets go and says mildly, “You done?”

“Fuck you,” Clint coughs out.

“Here’s the deal,” Lopez says. He reaches out and grabs Clint’s left wrist around the cuff, slamming it down to the ground. He holds it down with one hand. “We’re going to let you up. You’re not going to fight us. You’re going take your clothes off, nice and slow, and then you’ll let us do whatever the fuck we want with you.”

“Like hell I will,” Clint says, trying to pull his arm away.

“Sure you will.” Lopez reaches behind his back. There’s the distinctive sound of a knife being drawn from a sheath, and then he flashes the cold steel in Clint’s face. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna take this knife—“ he holds it up, then lowers it to Clint’s hand “—and it’s going to meet these two fingers.”

A sharp point touches Clint’s middle and index fingers. He freezes, flatting his hand to the floor. Lopez smiles. “Exactly,” he says. “Gonna be hard shoot your little arrows without those, won’t it? And if that doesn’t work, well, we’ve got eight other options after that.” He brings the knife up, lets the tip drag by the edges of Clint’s eye. “Or this, too. Could turn you into Nick Fury, you always did follow him around like a puppy.”

“He said no permanent damage,” Clint gasps out, looking over to Rumlow. “Tell them, Rumlow, you _said_ —“

Rumlow shrugs. “You’ll survive. Might even make you a little easier, in the long run.” He’s still leaning against the wall, posture relaxed.

Clint wants to scream at him for lying, but Lopez presses the knife down on his fingers and drags his attention back. Not enough to cut skin, but enough to be a suggestion. Panic flares in Clint’s chest, and he holds perfectly still, fighting the urge to kick and scream and _move_. “Please don’t,” he says, meeting Lopez’s brown eyes. “God, Lopez. _Please_.”

The terror in his voice is unmistakable. The whole group can hear him. Lopez smiles again. “Is that a _yes_ I’m hearing?”

“Yes,” Clint says immediately. He’s beaten, he knows it. The little part of his mind that’s still a SHIELD agent has examined the situation, and come up with a solid conclusion. There’s no point in continuing to resist, not for the sake of his pride or anything else. Not anymore.

“No more fighting,” Lopez says, pulling the knife back. “Right?”

“No more fighting,” Clint echoes.

“Good boy,” Lopez murmurs. He tucks the knife away and releases Clint’s wrist. “Off him, Smith. Let him up.”

The boot comes off his chest and Clint instantly yanks his left arm out of danger. He rolls onto his side, curling slightly, and takes a couple deep breaths. Rumlow is still watching him, his mouth curved in amusement. _I told you,_ that smile seems to say. _And you fought anyway._

_You wanted me to,_ Clint wants to argue back. He doesn’t know if he’s more furious with Rumlow, for putting him in this situation, or himself, for ever trusting the bastard’s word in the first place. _No permanent damage, my ass._ He wants to run away screaming, but there is nowhere to run to. Not this time.

There’s a sharp whistle behind him, and a nudge to his back. “Get up, Barton.”

He can do this. It’s just another mission. A sucky one, but a mission nonetheless. He’ll get through it, file it away, and pretend it never happened. He’ll be fine. Everything is fine.

He tells himself this as he slowly gathers his muscles and pushes himself up to his knees, then to his feet. He gives a second for the dizziness to abate, then takes a few hesitant steps forward. Ends up back in the semi-circle. It’s smaller, now, but that’s not reassuring. Especially since some of the others who weren’t involved are now stirring in the background, casting interested glances this way.

_Sixteen is better than twenty,_ he thinks, but the idea of even that many touching him makes him feel sick. And considering that Gibson is now back on his feet, it’s looking like seventeen. Clint nervously taps his fingers against his thigh and tries to find that place in his head. The cold mission mindset he’s spent so much time in. He used to know how to get there so _easily_. When did he lose that ability?

Lopez clears his throat. Clint shifts his gaze up from the floor, realizing he’d been standing there with his head down. Subconsciously trying to make himself look smaller. He hates himself for that. _You are a goddamn SHIELD agent, Hawkeye. Act like one._

Clint kicks off his socks and shoes. Feels the hum of the plane through his bare feet. He glances past them all, into the cockpit, where he can see the faint gleam of the Soldier’s arm. _Don’t watch,_ he implores the guy, although he doesn’t know why. What’s one more set of eyes?

“Go on,” Lopez says. Clint forces himself back to the moment. He undoes his belt, then the buttons. Shoves the pants and underwear to the ground next to the shoes. There’s a couple whistles, some more unkind comments. He ignores them and strips his shirt off. Drops it on the pile.

He lifts his chin and stares around at all of them. No one makes a move. They just stare, like they can’t believe this is actually happening. _Yeah, well, that makes two of us. Or eighteen of us, I guess._

Clint flips his gaze back to Lopez. “We doing this or what?” he challenges, forcing his voice to be steady. “Because I’m supposed to be flying the plane, so…”

The spell, whatever it was, is broken. The group breaks into murmurs and laughter. Lopez smirks. “Sassy little bitch, aren’t you?”

“It’s part of my charm,” Clint says, clenching his fists to help stop the trembling. “So?”

“Didn’t know you were so eager for it, Barton.” Lopez snaps his fingers. “Why don’t you get on your knees for us?”

Unwillingly, Clint glances over to Rumlow, still off to the side. He shrugs with a _what do you want me to do about it_ look and points back at Lopez. _He’s the one in charge._

Lopez appears to feel the same way, because he snaps his fingers again. “What, you need daddy’s permission? Get on your knees, Barton.”

Clint bites back a retort and kneels. The surface under him is rough and gritty, and it digs into his skin in a horrible way.

“Better,” Lopez says. “Now. Crawl over here.”

With a look that shows him _exactly_ what Clint thinks of that order, Clint shifts forward and crawls to him. He stops in front of Lopez, coming up to sit on his heels and glare up at him.

Lopez reaches down and cups his jaw. “You hate this,” he says. “Don’t you?”

Clint doesn’t pull away, even though he wants to. “Of course I hate this,” he says. “What gave it away? Was it the fighting or the death threats?”

The others laugh. Lopez chuckles softly. “That’s okay. You’ll like it. We’ll make sure of it. You always wanted it before, right? I seem to remember you being real eager for it after a couple of missions.”

There’s a general murmur of assent from the rest of them. “Fuck off,” Clint says, yanking his head back. “I seem to remember you turning me down, anyway. You must be pretty desperate now. This the only way you can get some?”

Lopez slaps him. “You keep opening that damn mouth, someone’s gonna put something in it.” He smirks and puts his hand on Clint’s face again, thumbing over his bottom lip. Clint takes a deep breath and lets him do it. “Not gonna bite me this time, are you?”

“You want me to?”

Lopez laughs. “Maybe later,” he says, and he slides two fingers into Clint’s mouth. He presses down on his tongue, rubbing, then moves further back. Clint chokes, a quick noise spilling out of him. “Hmm,” Lopez says. “Can’t go very deep, can you?”

“He will if you make him,” someone else calls. “I’ve seen it.”

Another thrust makes him gag, and he leans backwards. Lopez makes a soft chiding noise and follows him. “Easy, Barton.” He pushes a couple more times, then pulls his fingers out and wipes them on Clint’s cheek.

“Gross, dude,” Clint says, scrubbing it off.

Lopez smiles at him. It’s not a nice smile. “Ask to suck my cock.”

“What?”

“Ask to suck my cock.” He enunciates each word, like not hearing him the first time was the fucking problem.

Clint stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”

Clint shakes his head. “Your whole goddamn face is a joke. Hard to tell.”

His ears ring, and his vision swims, and he suddenly finds himself on the floor. Lopez withdraws his hand, his brief explosion of anger fading back into that calm expression.

“Rude,” Clint breathes, pushing himself back up.

“I gave you an order. You gonna obey it?”

“Fuck, no.”

Lopez sighs, and reaches back for his knife. “You said you’d play nice, Barton. Are you reneging on that?”

“I said I wouldn’t fight you,” Clint corrects. He holds his hands out, then thinks better of it and tucks his fingers into safety. “I’m not fighting. Do what you want. But I’m not playing along with your fucking porno fantasies.”

Lopez looks irritated, and he casts a glance over at Rumlow. Clint looks that way too, and Rumlow finally gets up. He saunters over to Clint. Puts a hand on his head. “Is there a problem?”

“You have questionable taste in friends,” Clint says, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to Rumlow or himself.

“I’m aware.” Rumlow’s fingers wind into his hair. “But I think this is about you, not me.”

“He’s not listening to us,” Lopez says, sounding like a whiny toddler.

“I’m _listening_. I’m just not doing it.” It’s probably a stupid place to draw a line in the sand, but honestly, fuck this guy.

Rumlow sighs. “Barton.” His tone is exasperated, like a parent correcting a toddler for the thousandth time. “Remember that discussion we had in the hallway?”

“Remember that discussion we had ten minutes ago, when you said you wouldn’t get involved?”

“During the fight, sure.” He tightens his grip and pulls Clint’s head back hard. “Fight’s over now, Barton. You lost. Cards are back on the table.” He lets go with a vicious shove, throwing him forward and off balance. Clint throws out a hand to catch himself, jarring his wrist. He winces at the flare of pain.

Rumlow waits until he’s back upright, then calmly says, “You still planning on arguing?”

Clint glares up at him, but that’s all he can do. Glare. He had his chance to fight, and he lost. Now his friends’ lives are on the line again, and everyone here knows what his answer will be. He can see the amusement in Rumlow’s eyes, the unspoken offer. _Ask me for help, and I might be obliging._

_Fuck_ that. He’s not going to beg Rumlow for a goddamn thing. He’s not a damsel in distress, he can take whatever they throw at him. He can do this.

Still, it’s surprisingly hard to get the word out. Rumlow waits patiently, gives him the moment he needs, and after another breath Clint drops his eyes to the floor and says, “No.”

_Not fair not fair not fair not fair_

_Life’s not fucking fair, Barton. Get used to it._

His shoulders sag a little. Rumlow smirks. “There you go, Lopez.”

He strolls back to his seat, and Lopez clears his throat. “I believe there was something you wanted to ask me,” he says, crossing his arms.

Clint looks up at him. “Who’s running to daddy now?” he mutters, and Lopez backhands him again. The rest of the room laughs as he picks himself back up.

Words. It’s just words. This is just a mission, and these are just words.

He flicks his eyes up to Lopez’s stupid face and forces them out. “Can I suck your cock?”

“Ask me nicely.”

Clint starts thinking of the ways he wants to kill this man. _Knife under the ribs, sharp stab up._ “Please.” _Bullet through the brain. No, that’s too fast._

“Mmm.” Lopez considers for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. Why don’t you go ask Jackson?”

Clint looks around. He doesn’t know Jackson, but he identifies the man immediately by the way he shifts and looks eager. Clint looks back at Lopez, then starts to get to his feet.

Immediately, Lopez sticks out a foot and sends him crashing back to the ground. “No,” he says, as Clint swears quietly, his eyes watering. “You don’t get to walk.” His eyes gleam. “Crawl to him. Like a little bitch should.”

Just a mission. Just words. Just another goddamn power play. Clint pulls himself together and counts vicious deaths in his head and crawls over to Jackson, where he asks the same question. Jackson sends him to Miller, who sends him to Davis, who sends him to Gibson, who has finally joined the party. It’s like hot potato, except he’s the potato and it fucking sucks. His knees are bleeding by the time he ends up in front of Gibson. He looks up, forces the words out, waits to be sent away.

Gibson looks down at him. Clint imagines sticking a knife through his eye.

“Sure,” he says. His chin is bruised from where Clint hit it. “Why the fuck not?”

Clint nods tiredly. He’s so done with this, his knees fucking hurt, and he wants—

_Can’t get what you want._

Gibson is looking at him expectantly. Rumlow usually does his own pants, but it’s fine, it’s just a mission, Clint can do it, no problem. He reaches for the belt and tugs it open. Undoes the buttons. Lowers the zipper. Reaches in and pulls Gibson’s cock out. Gives it a few strokes.

He thinks about Wes, then, although he’s loathe to bring someone else into this. But he doesn’t want to be _here_ , and Wes is as good an option as any. God knows Clint’s spent plenty of time on his knees for him.

He leans forward. Takes the cock into his mouth. Licks around the head the way Wes likes best, the way that makes him moan. Goes slow down, slow up, sucking all the way. Braces his hands on Wes’s thighs. Digs in a little bit, Wes likes to feel his fingernails. Uses his tongue and—

“Fuck,” Gibson groans, and the image shatters like glass. “Fucking hell, if I’d known you were this good, I would’ve put you on your knees years ago.”

“Right? He’s wasting his talents with SHIELD.”

“Good thing he’s got us now.”

“Yeah. We’ll put him to good use.”

The voices swirl around Clint and he closes his eyes, tries to block them out as he keeps going. Words. Just words. He’s with Wes, it’s just Wes, he’s not here—

“Look at me,” Gibson growls, and the image shatters again. “Eyes up, asshole. I want you looking at me.”

Clint looks up and keeps going. Takes him deep and swallows around him. Holds him there until he needs to breathe, then pulls back. Gibson groans and tilts his head back. Clint does it one more time, gives it one more push, and then Gibson is coming in spurts down the back of his throat. Clint takes him through the aftershocks, then eases off. His eyes are watering. He doesn’t know if its from what he just did or from something else. He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t really want to think at all, honestly.

“Goddamn,” Gibson says. “God _damn_.”

Clint looks down at the floor. His knees have stopped bleeding, at least.

“I want some of that,” another voice says. “Send him over here.”

Gibson nudges Clint’s leg. “Off you go, slut. Miller wants you.”

_Arrow in your heart,_ Clint thinks, and he slowly crawls over to Miller.

Miller comes a lot faster than Gibson. Clint only has to work a couple of minutes before he’s swallowing, his stomach churning, and then it’s on to the next one. And the next one. His jaw aches by the time he ends up back in front of Lopez.

Lopez reaches down and tilts Clint’s chin up. “Having fun?”

“So much fun,” Clint rasps. Even his voice sounds fucked. “Ten out of ten would recommend.”

“Christ, you _never_ stop, do you?” Lopez palms the front of his pants. “Ask me for it, bitch.”

The words come easier now. “Can I please suck your cock?”

Lopez grins. “Sure, bitch. Get it nice and wet. You’re gonna want that.”

Clint figured his ass would be on the table long before this. He’s surprised any of them have actually waited this long. He obediently goes to work, trying to work up as much spit as he can.

“Stop,” Lopez says, and Clint lets the cock fall from his mouth. “Turn around. On your elbows. Ass up.”

Clint assumes the position. Despite the veiled threat, there’s a snap of a cap popping open, and a slick sound that he recognizes. He has a moment to think that maybe this won’t be that awful, but then there’s a cock nudging at his hole and he panics a little because he’s not stretched, he’s not prepared for it, and it _burns_ —

A scream tears itself out of his chest and out his sore throat. He wants to take it back, wants to have a stoic face and a ‘fuck you’ demeanor, but he can’t. It hurts, it _hurts_ , and he screams again, howling his agony into the grit of the floor beneath him. He feels violated. Small. Useless.

Lopez pulls out, then slams back into him. He fucks brutally, the sound of it loud, and grips Clint’s hips with bruising hands. “There you go,” he says, his voice harsh. “Take it. Take my cock, you fucking little whore…”

_I’m not a whore_ he wants to scream, but Christ, he feels like one.

“Let me at that mouth,” someone else says, and there are hands pulling him up, and something nudging at his lips. He lets his mouth fall open. Tries to breathe as a cock slides into his mouth and he chokes, an harsh sound dragging out of him.

“Oh fuck, make him do that again.”

Another choke. Clint plays it up a little, thinking maybe he can just get this over with, but there’s too many hands on him, too many people around. A tear slides down his cheek, followed by another.

“He’s crying,” someone says delightedly. “Not so tough now, are you?”

He bites _hard_ , and whoever’s in his mouth lets out a high-pitched shriek and stumbles backwards. “Tough enough,” Clint says, letting his anger burn through the words.

There’s laughing, and swearing from whoever he bit, and then his head is being yanked up by his hair. Clint yelps and goes along with it, pulling up to meet a pair of extremely angry green eyes. “What the fuck was that?” the guy snarls. “Huh? You wanna play a game?”

A gun jams into his chin, and he holds as still as he can, even as Lopez continues to fuck him. He doesn’t think they’re going to kill him, but at this point, anything else is on the table. He glances over at Rumlow, who is watching the scene with an intensity that belies his relaxed posture. “Sure, Jigsaw,” Clint says, looking back at the guy in front of him. “Let’s play a game.”

He slams his head forward. The gun vanishes and the guy howls, stumbling backwards, blood pouring down his chin. “You little fucker!” he screams, gingerly touching his nose. “I’m gonna—!”

Clint doesn’t get to hear the rest, because the cuffs around his wrists flare to life. It’s been a while since they’ve gone off, and the pain of it is so much worse than he remembers. He screams and collapses forward, barely managing to save his own nose from a similar fate. _Fucking fuck fuck what the fuck is wrong with you_

“Behave yourself,” Rumlow says, pitching his voice to be heard over everyone else. “Last warning.”

_You lost. Cards are back on the table._

“Just a mission,” he breathes to himself, face still pressed into the floor. “Just a mission, it’s just a mission, you can _do_ this.” He has to get himself under control. It’s just sex, just bodies. This is not worth a fight. It’s _not_.

Lopez is still fucking him. Faster now, his fingers digging in with a sharp intensity. He thrusts a few more times and then grunts, spilling inside Clint with a low moan of satisfaction. “That’s the spirit,” he sighs, pulling Clint closer. “How’s that feel, huh?”

_Like I’m going to fucking kill you. Slowly._

He pulls out. “Stay,” he says, patting Clint’s ass, so Clint stays. He’s sure he looks quite the sight— literally face down, ass up. He doesn’t really have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

Someone takes Lopez’s place, sliding into him with an obscene sound. Clint winces. It still burns, although he’s at least a little more stretched out. But it’s not as bad. It’s tolerable. He can take it. It’s just a mission.

More hands pull him up. Another cock nudges at his lips. “You gonna bite this time?”

Clint shakes his head. No. He’s done with that particular venture.

“Good.” It slides in. “Get to work.”

He gets to work. Time passes. He loses track of what’s going on, who’s around him, who’s in him. He does what they tell him to do. No point in arguing. It’s just words. It’s just a mission. _Take emotions out of it, Agent Barton. Do your job._

Nobody touches him, and he’s absurdly grateful for that. Despite Lopez’s threat to make him like it, most of them just seem purely in it for their own pleasure. Which he is perfectly okay with. He’ll take being a human fleshlight over forced orgasms any day.

At some point, though, the others seem to pick up on his ‘just get through it’ mindset. Or they just suddenly feel particularly sadistic. All Clint knows is that one second he’s wincing as another cock stabs into him, and the next second there’s something wrapped around his throat.

He goes into full panic mode, rearing up hard and grabbing at whatever’s there. It’s a belt. _His_ belt. Someone’s got it wrapped around him like a leash and they pull _hard_. Clint chokes and follows it back, arching his spine uncomfortably as he frantically tears at it. There’s laughter, and someone grabs his wrists in an iron grip. “ _That_ woke you up,” Davis says in his ear. “We were a little worried there. Thought you might be bored of us.”

“Stop,” Clint wheezes. “Please.”

The belt eases up a little and he gasps for air, coughing hard. “Say that again,” Davis murmurs. His eyes are dark with lust.

“ _Please_.” Clint blinks back tears. “Please stop.”

The belt tightens again and he thrashes, trying hard to break out of Davis’s grip. The world starts to fuzz around the edges, and a broken sob escapes from him. He knows they won’t kill him, he _knows_ it, but the rational part of his mind is being overwhelmed by the sheer animal panic flooding everything—

“Enough,” someone says, and the belt loosens. Clint collapses forward, right into Davis’s chest. He doesn’t care.

Or he doesn’t until another hand snakes between them, and wraps around his dick. “You little freak,” Miller says, stroking him. “Look at this. You fucking like it.”

_I don’t,_ Clint wants to say. But all he can manage is a shake of his head. A pathetic denial.

The belt slowly tightens. Not all the way, but enough to restrict his air to the edge of panic again. His world narrows to a few points—the rasp of fabric against his skin, the rough drag of Miller’s hand over his dick, the way whoever’s behind is grinding into him just _right_ —

“There ya go,” Davis says, looking down. He looks down too even though it hurts, and sees what they’re all seeing—he’s hard, achingly so, and he can’t help the little whimper that spills from him as Miller swipes a thumb over the head. “I knew you’d like this.”

_I don’t like it. I don’t want it._

But his hips stutter forward anyway, fucking into Miller’s hand. He hates the way they all laugh, the way they can all see him literally laid bare, his soul split open—

The belt tightens again. He’s able to get in one last breath before, and then Lopez’s voice is in his ear. “You’d better come if you want to breathe again, bitch.”

They won’t kill him, but he doesn’t doubt that they’ll go until he’s unconscious, and he doesn’t want that, he needs to be aware of what’s happening. So he pushes his hips forward again. Focuses on the sensations. He’s done things like this before, it’s just another breath play game. Like he does with Wes. Just a game, safe word not included. He moves his hips forward, pushes back into the cock in his ass, tries to find all the right spots that he knows will make him come. His vision starts to blur and he gets faster, more desperate, his body screaming for air and pleasure and relief all at the same time—

His mouth opens with a cry that he doesn’t have the air to produce, and he spills into Miller’s hand. The pleasure rockets through him, intensified by everything else. He can’t breathe. He can barely see. The edges of his vision are whiting out. There are stars in the background, floating in the air, and he thinks if he focuses hard enough on them he might be able to float away too. He could float all the way to Natasha, see her face one last time before he dies. He deserves that.

Air. It’s awful and beautiful and _painful_. It rips through his chest like a fire. Singes his throat and his lungs and sparks tears in his eyes. The belt falls open, the end of it brushing over his chest while Clint coughs and sobs and chokes his way back to reality. Davis finally lets him go and he falls forward, burying his face in his arms.

“Fucking hell,” someone behind him says. “You would not believe how tight that made him.”

“That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen. Tell me you got video.”

“Fuck yeah. Up close and personal.”

“Good.” There’s hands on his ass again, spreading him open. A cock presses into him. He doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t care. He’s so tired.

Someone hauls him upright, and the belt tightens around his neck. Clint grabs at it, wrapping his fingers around the canvas. He forces his head up. Looks over the crowd around him and finds Rumlow, who is now leaning against the capsule. He raises an eyebrow at Clint’s searching gaze, and Clint can read the order from where he sits. _Ask me for it, sweetheart._

_Help,_ he mouths, because that’s his only option now. He can’t do this anymore. _Please._

That predatory smile breaks across Rumlow’s face, unfurling slow and steady. “Alright,” he says, coming over. “That’s enough.” There’s a general murmur of protest, and Rumlow gives them a look. “ _Enough_ ,” he says again. “You had your fun. Go clean up. We’ve got a mission in less than five hours.”

The protests continue, but they begrudgingly back off. The belt loosens, and the bodies disappear from around him. Clint collapses to the floor, and watches as Rumlow kneels in front of him. He puts a steadying hand on Clint’s shoulder. “How you doing, kid?”

“Please stop,” Clint says. His voice breaks. “No more. Please.”

“Mm. I haven’t had a turn yet.”

Clint shudders. “Rumlow.”

“Shh. I’ll be the last one. I know you’re tired.”

Tired. This isn’t tired. This isn’t even exhaustion. It’s past that. He wants to shut off and never turn back on again. He is bone-weary, and so, _so_ done.

But he doesn’t have a choice, so he just nods. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

“Good boy.” Rumlow pulls him into a hug. Runs his hand up and down Clint’s back. “Shh.” He presses his lips next to Clint’s ear. “Tell me you want it.”

Clint makes a soft noise. He’s sick of these games, he _knows_ he lost, they don’t need to rub it in—

“Tell me you want it,” Rumlow says again, the easy tone edging into something harder. “Tell me you want me. Or I’ll bring them back.”

Clint looks up at him through blurry eyes, one hand still around the belt at his neck. He doesn’t _want_ Rumlow, doesn’t _trust_ him, but he’s so fucking done. He just needs this to be over.

“I want it,” he says softly. He lets his head fall forward to Rumlow’s shoulder.

“What do you want?”

“You,” Clint says immediately. “Just you. No one else. Please.”

The worst part is, he actually means it. Rumlow is cruel and sadistic, but it’s a devil he knows, and Clint would willingly fuck him a thousand times if it meant getting away from everyone else here.

“How do you want it?”

“I don’t care.” He feels like there’s gravel in his throat. “Whatever you want. Wherever you want. Please. I’ll do anything.”

“I know you will,” Rumlow says soothingly. “You’re good for me.”

He works the belt over Clint’s head and tosses it aside. Gets his own pants out of the way. Puts Clint on his back and pushes his knees up to his chest. “You ready?”

Clint nods, and Rumlow slides in with a soft moan. Clint feels loose, stretched open, but Rumlow seems to like it. Likes the sounds that come with every roll of his hips. He fucks him slowly, almost tenderly, and it’s such a relief that Clint nearly starts crying.

“I want you to come for me,” Rumlow says quietly. “Think you can do that?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says. It’s barely a whisper. “Please.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.” A hand wraps around his dick. “You need help?”

Clint nods brokenly. If this is what it takes to end this whole thing, he’ll do it. He just wants to sleep.

He tries to focus on the sensations again. The just-right angle inside him that sends sparks up his spine with every thrust. He imagines being somewhere warm, somewhere safe, with a person he actually wants touching him. Imagines a pair of pretty blue eyes watching his every gasp. Imagines a warm hand sliding up and down his cock, while a stronger silver one intertwines with his own fingers, gripping in a way that makes him feel safe, and _wanted_ —

Clint’s eyes snap open and he comes all over his chest. Rumlow lets out an approving noise and goes a little faster, fucking him harder. Clint barely notices, sparks of pleasure still shooting through him as he thinks about someone _else_ moving above him, soft moans spilling from a face framed by dark hair.

Rumlow grunts and comes inside him, balls deep. “Good,” he grunts, and Clint forces his attention back to the present, because it doesn’t matter what he _wants_. This is what he gets. Not safe, not protected. Just Rumlow.

“Good,” Rumlow says again, patting his chest with a firm hand.

Clint closes his eyes, and it’s beyond him just then to open them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Rumlow takes Clint into the back of the plane, and pretty much lets the team have at him. He and Clint argue about what's going to happen, and Rumlow tells Clint he can fight if he wants. Clint fights, and ends up killing Jones, but the rest take him down. They threaten to cut off his fingers unless he cooperates. Rumlow doesn't stop them, so Clint ends up giving in. They rape him, and choke him with a belt while forcing him to have an orgasm, and generally are awful, awful people. Clint finally asks Rumlow to make them stop. Rumlow does, and then he takes his own turn, and Clint passes out after that. 
> 
> If you need a palate cleanser after that... here is [tony and steve being cute](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100618) or [the queer eye/Venom crossover that no one asked for but they got anyway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219286). 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he finally looks back up, Barton is still staring at that same place on the floor. Rumlow sets his pad down and scoots a little closer. “Hey,” he says, and Barton glances over. “Did we break you?”
> 
> Barton holds his gaze for a moment, then lets out a little huff of laughter. “No,” he says. “Did you want to?”
> 
> “Just a bit,” Rumlow admits. “It looks good on you.”

Rumlow has been on dozens of missions, but this one is definitely making the top ten list. Maybe even the top five. Hell, it’s probably the best one yet, and they haven’t even gotten to the actual mission. 

His original plan for bringing Barton along was as he’d described it to the man. He and Sitwell had both figured that if Banner saw his old teammate, he’d be more inclined to stay calm and come quietly. Plus, Barton was a pilot, which meant he could help the Asset fly the plane, and eliminated the need to find a disposable pilot. So all in all, it made sense to bring him with.

He really hadn’t been intending on everything else that happened. Barton had been busy flying the plane, and Rumlow was lounging against his bag, thinking through the contingency plans for Banner. Then Gibson and the others had approached him. 

At first he said no. Partly because Barton _was_ flying the plane, and partly because the guy deserved a little bit of a break. But then he really thought about it, how wrecked Barton would look afterwards, how he’d actually get to _see it_ for once, and the idea made his dick go from zero to one-hundred in about three seconds. So he’d agreed. They laid down ground rules—no permanent damage, stop when Rumlow told them to—and he went to get Barton. 

It was _perfect_. It was everything he’s been hoping to see, everything he knows he misses when he’s out on a mission and Barton is in the cell. He always watches the videos afterward, of course, but it’s just not the same. Seeing the struggle and the surrender on camera doesn’t hold a candle to seeing it in person. Plus, the videos generally start once the fucking does. They don’t normally capture the fight that happens before—which was definitely the best part of the whole thing. Barton had tried _so hard_. Rumlow knew that Lopez wouldn’t have cut anything off, but Barton hadn’t, and his _face_ when he thought Rumlow would let them do it—Christ, he’s hard again just thinking about it.

He’s never regretted his decision to keep Barton, but this has just made Rumlow all the more sure he made the right choice. He breaks so _beautifully_. And even broken, he still manages to hold onto that streak of fire and rage that drew Rumlow to him in the first place. He’s never met someone who embodies “fuck you” as much as Barton does. Or says it as much, either. 

The end had been particularly perfect, too. _I want you. No one else. I’ll do anything._ Rumlow has always wondered what it would take to make Clint Barton crack. Now he knows. And Barton knows, too. 

_I’ll do anything._

At his side, Barton is laying like a dead man. It could be called sleeping, but it’s really more like unconsciousness. His brain is officially offline. Rumlow had cleaned him up, then dragged him over to the side of the plane and deposited him onto a little canvas cot. Other than a few little pathetic noises, his eyes had stayed closed the entire time. 

“Wore you out good,” he says fondly, patting the blanket-covered figure. 

Across the room, the rest of the team is either passed out or quietly occupied. Jackson is hard at work on a laptop. Video editing, probably. Guy could have had a career in film if he hadn’t gone this way first. Most of the agents take videos of Barton, but Jackson really has a talent for stringing them together. His submissions usually gets the most hits on the Hydra forum. 

Rumlow checks his watch. Three hours to touchdown, supposedly. He gets up and walks over to the cockpit. “Hey,” he says, knocking on the wall. “What’s the status?”

“No issues. Landing time as anticipated.” 

“Good. Keep me posted.” He starts to leave.

A metal hand closes around his arm, and Rumlow nearly shits himself. He’s one of the Asset’s top handlers, which means he knows all the embedded code words to take him down, but the guy still terrifies him. Every time Rumlow gets close, he’s intensely aware of the fact that he’s essentially approaching a _very_ homicidal bear. One that’s basically held together by wishful thinking and and a couple Russian commands at this point. He usually thrives on the danger of it—that was why Pierce had picked him to be a handler—but moments like this are a sharp reminder that he’s always one misstep from being brutally eviscerated.

Still, he can’t let anyone see that he’s about to run away screaming. So he steels himself and looks down at the hand. “Let _go_ , Asset.”

The Asset looks at him through that mess of overly long hair, and doesn’t budge. “Where is Clint?”

Rumlow blinks in surprise. “Why the fuck do you care?” There’s no answer to that. Rumlow tugs his arm. “Let go. _Now_.”

The metal hand releases him. He breathes a little easier. 

“Where is Clint?”

“He’s back there,” Rumlow says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Sleeping.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Again, why the fuck do you care?” Rumlow tilts his head. “He’s not your mission or your responsibility.” He studies the Asset, but there’s nothing in the blank expression to read into. “How long have you been out of cryo?”

“Twenty days, six hours, twenty-seven minutes.” 

Fuck. That’s way too long. No wonder he’d choked out Jones earlier, although the little shit probably had it coming. That was likely the last time they wiped him too, considering how many ops he’s been running in the last few weeks. Rumlow makes a mental note to contact the cryo team. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You don’t worry about him. Fly the damn plane.”

There’s a beat of silence while those puppy-dog eyes stare at him, and then he says, “Yes, sir.”

Slightly shaken, Rumlow leaves him and goes back to his seat. He hadn’t worried too much about putting Barton and the Asset together. He’d assumed that the Asset would be as he always was—quiet, scary, not one for conversation. Apparently, he’d assumed wrong. He’ll need to watch them more closely, and he’ll need to keep them separated after this. It’s probably a bad idea to let the Asset get buddy-buddy with anyone. Particularly Barton. 

There’s a soft moan to his left. Rumlow looks down. “You alive in there?”

Barton slowly blinks his eyes open, wincing as the dim light hits them. It takes him a few seconds to fully come back. Then he shifts a little, and a wave of pain crosses over his face. 

“You’re not gonna feel too good,” Rumlow says casually. “You had a rough time of it. I think I have some ibuprofen, if you want.”

Barton shifts again. “Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds absolutely shredded. Rumlow remembers the belt around his throat, the way he’d _arched_ into it. The memory distracts him for a second, and he has to think some very boring thoughts to get himself back under control. 

He gets a water bottle and the medicine from his bag. “You need help sitting up?”

Barton considers, then nods. The blanket is up around his face, covering his mouth, but Rumlow can see the misery in his eyes. He loves it. “Okay. Come here.” 

Between the two of them, they manage to tip Barton upright. He leans against the wall, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Rumlow watches, fascinated, as he slowly pulls himself back under control. “Water,” he rasps.

“Sure.” Rumlow hands him the water bottle. It takes him two tries to crack it open. “Go easy on that. You’re a little bruised.”

A lot bruised, actually. There’s a clear ligature mark around his neck where the belt was. His eyes are bloodshot; the one is still blackened from where Rumlow hit him the other day. The blanket has fallen around his shoulders a bit, and Rumlow can see the faint impressions of bruises starting to surface. He wants to put his own hands over them, dig in, see if he can wiggle past that rough exterior again and make him _break_ —

Barton takes a tiny sip of the water. He winces as he swallows, mutters, “Fuck.”

“Here.” Rumlow dumps a couple capsules in his hand. “Should be easy enough to get down.”

A small shrug in response. He swallows the pills with another wince and puts the cap back on the bottle with trembling fingers.

“You remember what happened?” Rumlow asks, because he’s honestly not sure. Barton had looked pretty out of it even before they started with the whole belt thing. But apparently he does, because he rolls his eyes and tugs the blanket closer around himself. Rumlow can read the _yes, asshole_ written all over him. 

“I did try to warn you,” he says. “I told you they wouldn’t be happy if you fought them.”

Barton shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the floor. 

Rumlow sighs. “You hungry?”

Another head shake. 

“Alright. Let me know.” He settles back into his seat and resumes flipping through his data pad. No update on the forum yet, which means either Jackson’s not done with the video or he doesn’t have the connection to post it. Rumlow closes it and moves on. He still has some reports to do, he’s been neglecting the paperwork from his last two missions. He also drafts a quick note to the cryo team, something along the lines of _hey dipshits why has the Asset been out for so long, what the fuck do we even pay you for?_ He sends an update to Sitwell, and then just for the hell of it, scribbles out a ‘happy birthday’ email to his sister. It’s a week late, but it’s better than nothing. 

When he finally looks back up, Barton is still staring at that same place on the floor. Rumlow sets his pad down and scoots a little closer. “Hey,” he says, and Barton glances over. “Did we break you?”

Barton holds his gaze for a moment, then lets out a little huff of laughter. “No,” he says. “Did you want to?”

“Just a bit,” Rumlow admits. “It looks good on you.”

Barton rolls his eyes again and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “What happened after?”

“After you passed out? I cleaned you up and brought you over here. You’re fine, by the way. Just some bruising. Nothing permanent.”

His fingers trace over the marks at his throat. “Fine,” he echoes. “Sure.”

“You’re welcome, by the way. I didn’t have to do anything. Could’ve left you on the floor.”

“Real hero,” Barton says. “Clothes?”

Rumlow reaches under the cot and dumps them into Barton’s lap. “Here.”

Barton manages to dress himself entirely under the blanket. His face goes pale when Rumlow hands him the belt, but he takes it and threads it through his belt loops with shaking hands. “Okay,” he says when his jacket is zipped up to his throat. “I’m going to go.”

“Go where?”

He gestures. “The plane. Flying.”

“The Asset’s flying the plane.”

“I’m going.” His voice is still hoarse, but determined. He reaches out and takes the water bottle, then turns and walks towards the cockpit. It’s a slow walk, and clearly painful, but he still manages to make it look dignified. A couple of the guys call out to him as he passes. He ignores them.

The Asset says something when he sits down. There’s a moment of hesitation, then Barton replies with something short and clipped, and he takes the map the Asset hands him. 

Rumlow keeps a close eye on the situation, but it doesn’t look like there’s anything else going on. The cryo team responds with a very pointed email about his “professional manner” and reports that they’ll take care of it as soon as the plane lands back on US soil. _Dicks._

The video is up. Rumlow gives it a skim through and flashes Jackson a thumbs up. He’ll save it for later. 

Gibson walks past him to the lavatory. When he comes back, he drops onto the cot and grins at Rumlow. “Told you that would be fun.”

“And you were right,” Rumlow says. “But you know we can’t do it on the way back, right? That container’s supposed to hold Banner just in case, but I really don’t want to test it.”

“I figured. But I’ve got some other ideas,” he says. “About other things we could do to him next time. I’ve worked with him before. Did you know he _hates_ blindfolds? Freaks out about them.” 

Rumlow hadn’t known that. It’s never really come up. They’ve been captured on missions together, and he remembers more than a few head bags, but he’s never seen Barton panic about them. “No, I didn’t. How do you know?”

Gibson shrugs. “SERE training course with SHIELD. They blindfolded him for a demonstration. He lost his shit. Went absolutely nuts, just about killed the guy.”

It’s understandable, for sure. Rumlow doesn’t like the uncertainty of darkness either. He can definitely see how a guy who relies exclusively on his vision for his day job would freak out about it being taken from him. “Doesn’t like restraints, either,” he muses, thinking of the possibilities. He imagines Barton tied down to something, spread open and unable to see what’s coming. The thought sends a flash of heat through him. He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’ll think about it. Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime,” Gibson says. He gets up and goes back to his seat. 

Rumlow glances over at the cockpit again. Barton is staring straight ahead out the cockpit window, clenched fist trembling on his thigh. The Soldier touches Barton’s arm and says something to him. Rumlow leans a little further forward, watching closely. 

Barton glances over at the Soldier, putting his face in profile for the first time, and with delight, Rumlow realizes he’s been _crying_. He drinks in the sight of the red-rimmed eyes and watches as Barton rubs his face before shaking his head in response to whatever the Soldier said.

“Damn,” he says, shaking his head with a grin. _Deny it all you want, Barton. But we definitely broke you, at least a little bit._

Rumlow considers going over to talk with him, but he eventually decides against it. _Probably fucked with him enough for one day._ He settles back into his seat instead, flipping through his datapad and making plans. 

When they get close to touchdown time though, he doesn’t have a choice. He walks over to the cockpit, stepping louder than normal so they know he’s coming. “We good to go here?”

Barton nods, not looking at him. “Twenty-five minutes. I’m in contact with the tower. They’re clearing the runway for us.”

“Good boy.” He pats Barton’s shoulder and turns to the team. “Start packing up!” 

He does the same, getting his weapons ready and tugging his new body armor on. Stark design, much thinner and more lightweight. It doesn’t even _look_ like armor, it looks like a slightly thicker shirt. He prefers it to the bulky beast of his old one.

The landing is textbook perfect, with barely a bump. Once the plane comes to a stop, the team gathers up their various weapons and hurries out to the two military transport trucks waiting for them. Rumlow sends the Asset with Lopez and turns back to Barton. “Let’s go, kid.”

“We’re almost the same age,” Barton says, climbing out of the seat with a grimace. “Don’t call me kid.”

Rumlow ignores him. “Your voice sounds better.” The bruises look worse though, the yellow and purple splotches in dark contrast against his pale skin. His eyes are still red—the only evidence left of his earlier breakdown.

“Yeah.” Barton shifts his weight. “Are we leaving, or are you going to stare at my neck like a vampire?”

Rumlow rolls his eyes and grabs Barton’s arm. “You’re such a little shit, you know that?” He marches him to the trucks, where the rest of the guys are waiting. “Alright. Here’s the plan.”

He takes out his datapad and keys up a hologram of the building Banner is in. “The target is located here. Bravo team fans out, establishing a one-block outer perimeter. Keep civilians away, and monitor for any SHIELD agents. We don’t think Banner’s in contact with anyone, but it’s a possibility. Try not to kill anybody if you don’t have to. We don’t want to spook Banner and set him off. The goal here is to get him to come quietly, not cause an international incident. We’re still operating under SHIELD’s name.” He shifts to an inner view. “Alpha team does the inner perimeter. Gibson, your squad covers points of entry, front and back. Everyone else is with me on primary grab team. We send Barton in to do the talking, and the Asset as his backup. When Banner’s in custody, we walk him right out the front door, bring him back here, and get him in the container.” He dismisses the hologram and hands the pad to Barton. “You clear on your part here?”

“Right,” Barton says, taking the pad, looking less than thrilled about the situation. “Threaten his girlfriend, convince him to come with me so you can torture him. Got it.”

“Knock it off,” Rumlow says, smacking him on the back of the head. Barton scowls, but shuts his mouth. “Any questions?”

“Do we really want Banner awake for the drive back?” Gibson asks. “Shouldn’t we tranq him?”

Barton lets out a little laugh. “You should try that,” he says to Gibson. “Let me know how it goes.”

Rumlow hits him again. “We don’t have anything strong enough,” he says. “Trust me. We don’t want to make him angry.”

“You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry,” Barton agrees. 

Rumlow snaps. He turns and grabs Barton by the throat, shoving him back against the door of the truck. “Seriously?” he hisses. “You _really_ want to play this game right now? You really looking for a round two?”

Barton is dead still under his grip, barely even breathing. He doesn’t try to grab Rumlow. He knows better. Instead, he slowly holds his own hands up, palms out. “Okay,” he rasps, his throat working under Rumlow’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m done.”

“Good.” Rumlow lets go and turns back to the rest of the group. Barton moves to stand next to him. Rumlow doesn’t look at him, he just snaps his fingers and points at the ground next to him. After a moment, Barton slowly folds to his knees.

There’s some laughing, and a few low whistles and comments. “Okay,” Rumlow says, looking around. “Let’s try this again. Any questions?”

Barton stays kneeling next to him while he fields the various questions and concerns. When everyone’s satisfied, he put Lopez in charge of the Asset, then monitors as everyone climbs into their respective trucks. Finally, he turns back to Barton. “There’s a time and a place,” he says, offering a hand down. “You know that.”

Barton ignores his hand and gets up, brushing dirt off his pants. “I know,” he says quietly, his eyes on the ground. 

“Good. Don’t let it happen again. Get in the truck.” 

They climb in, taking seats by the door. Rumlow slams them shut. The trucks pull out. Rumlow checks his guns, then adjusts his earpiece. “Here,” he says, handing another one to Barton. “Officially part of the team.” 

“Oh boy,” Barton says, but he takes it and presses it into his ear. 

“Comms check,” Rumlow calls. Everybody checks in clear. “Alright. Radio silence until we get there.”

Barton is tense next to him, on the edge of his seat like he’s about to jump up. Rumlow watches as he looks around the truck, cataloging everything and everyone in that quick way of his. His fingers are tapping against the seat again, a short pattern that Rumlow has a hard time following exactly. He hides a smile. _Not as untouchable as you pretend to be, huh?_

“What’re you thinking about, Barton?” Gibson asks him from a couple seats down, and Barton’s head swivels towards him. “You missing my dick? You want to suck it again? You did so good last time.”

“Yeah, it was great,” Barton says, the casual nature of his voice betrayed by the rage in his eyes. “Like sucking on a toothpick.”

Gibson lunges for him, but Rumlow kicks him back. “Knock it off, you two. We’ve got a mission.” To Barton, he just levels a look and says, “Time and place, kid.”

“I’m gonna fucking destroy you,” Gibson promises. “You think you’re so great? I’m gonna make you wish you were never born, you cocky little piece of _shit_.”

Barton doesn’t answer, but there’s a little smirk on his face that tells Rumlow he won that particular battle. Gibson is still snarling obscenities, but the others have stepped in to restrain him. Rumlow shakes his head and decides to put Gibson in the other van on the way back. The hardest part of this whole thing will be getting Banner back to the plane; the last thing he needs is Gibson causing problems. He does _not_ want to deal with a code green because someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut. 

The rest of the trip goes without incident. They pull up a mile away from the target building and pile out. Bravo team takes off to establish the outer perimeter. Rumlow gives them ten minutes to get into position, then they go. 

The slums are a patchwork of buildings made out of corrugated metal and tarps. The air is thick with a variety of smells, most of which he doesn’t really want to identify. They pass by dozens of people, but no one offers them a challenge. Most just stare with blank eyes, like seeing twenty heavily armed men is everyday occurrence. Hell, maybe it is out here. Rumlow wouldn’t know.

The streets are an absolute maze, to the point where they have to rely on whispered directions from Miller, who’s navigating. Rumlow can see why Banner decided to disappear here. It’s a good hiding place, all things considered. No wonder it took Hydra so long to pin him down. Rumlow sees dozens of ways someone could vanish into these streets and never emerge again. Banner could have been home free, if he’d been able to keep his bleeding heart under control. 

They pass through the outer perimeter and end up outside a slightly taller building. It looks sturdier than the rest of them, like it’s made out of real materials. There’s a shop in the front, and a set of wooden stairs leading up to the second story. There’s a narrow balcony, and two doors at either end. Rumlow halts and signals the team to get into position, taking cover himself behind a foul-smelling mountain of trash. “There,” he says to Barton, pointing at the building. “Second story. Right door.”

“You’re sure he’s in there?” 

“Positive.” Rumlow turns to the Asset, who’s hovering off to the side. “Your job is to protect him,” he says, pointing to Barton. “You only interfere if he’s in danger. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” the Asset says. 

Rumlow looks at Barton. “If he goes green, you do what the Asset tells you to, got it? Stay with him, we’ll find you later.”

“Okay,” Barton says. His hand brushes one of the cuffs, and Rumlow knows he’s thinking about the previous time he tried to run. _Just you fucking try it. I’ll make what happened in the plane look like a goddamn birthday party._

“Remember, the goal is to prevent that,” Rumlow says. “Lots of civilians around here. Women. Kids. You don’t want them hurt, right?”

Barton shakes his head. “I’ll talk him down.” He takes a deep breath, then gets up and walks towards the building. The Asset trails him quietly. 

Rumlow touches his comms. “Bravo, check in.”

Lopez’s voice crackles back to him. “Bravo here. All clear.”

Illuminated by a dim streetlight, Barton climbs the staircase and knocks on Banner’s door. "Stay out here," he murmurs to the Soldier, who nods once, looking less than happy about the order. 

There’s a moment of hesitation, a shadow of movement behind the curtains, and then it opens a crack. Banner’s voice, low and nervous, comes out. Rumlow hears it through Barton’s comm. “Yes?”

“Bruce,” he says. “It’s Clint.”

Another moment of hesitation. Then a frantic scramble at the chain, and the door flings open the rest of the way. Rumlow sees Banner’s slim figure standing in the doorway, staring at Barton in disbelief. “ _Clint_?” 

“Live and in person,” Barton says. “Can I come in?”

Banner is still staring. “Jesus, what happened to you? You look like hell!”

“It’s a long story. Are you going to let me in?”

Banner steps back. Barton goes into the apartment, and the door closes. Rumlow stares at the door and listens over the comms, feeling the tension settle into his body. _Come on, Barton. Get him out here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The puzzle pieces snap into place, but it’s too late. Green is flickering over Banner’s face, making him broader, taller. Angrier. He transforms in a heartbeat, mild-mannered scientist giving way to unstoppable monster, popping the handcuffs like tissue paper. There is a moment where they all stand there, staring at the Hulk that has suddenly appeared in their midst.
> 
> Then Rumlow says, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and everything goes to shit.

Bruce’s apartment is really just a room. Small, dingy, with a thin mat on the floor, a makeshift kitchen in one corner, and a minuscule bathing area opposite. Clint looks around, taking it in, and says, “Bit of a step-down from the tower.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, still staring at him. “But it’s free. And under the radar.” He pauses, then says, “Or it was, anyway. I take it you didn’t come here alone.”

“No,” Clint admits. He makes a little whirling motion by his head and mouths, _Surrounded._ He taps his ear. _Listening._

Bruce nods. He points at his eye. _Watching?_

Clint shakes his head. _Don’t think so._

Bruce kneels down and picks up a yellowed legal pad from next to the mat. He digs a pen out of his pocket and scribbles something down. “What happened? I got the alert and I ran. I haven’t been able to contact _anyone._ The communicator isn’t—“

“Hydra happened,” Clint interrupts. “They took over SHIELD. Fury’s dead.”

Bruce takes a moment to process this, then says, “Well, shit.” He holds up the pad. _HOW MANY?_

Clint laughs bitterly. “That’s a word for it.” He flashes all ten fingers twice, then adds two more.

“What about the others?” _ANY WAY OUT?_

He shakes his head again. “Tony’s under house arrest. Thor’s off-world. Natasha and Cap are both in custody.” He doesn’t go into the details. “You were the only one unaccounted for. Nice job disappearing, by the way.”

“I learned from the best.” He looks down at Clint’s wrists. “I take it those aren’t for fun?”

“No. Courtesy of Brock Rumlow.”

Bruce pauses in his writing. He looks surprised. “The STRIKE guy?”

“Yeah. Apparently STRIKE was part of Hydra.” Clint feels the familiar anger well up in himself. _How could you have missed it?_ “The day you got that alert, they tried to take out Cap. I was in the command center when Sitwell ordered a level one search for him. I thought it was fishy, went to check things out. Got in a couple fights, miscalculated, ended up down in the basement with these on.” He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t need to go into the rest of it. Bruce can extrapolate what he wants from the visible marks. Clint doesn’t need to give him the whole sob story.

Bruce holds up the pad again. _THINK FURY IS STILL ALIVE._

Clint stares at the pad. His comms crackles. “Barton, stop playing catch up and get him out here. Clock’s ticking.”

“I’m _working_ on it,” he hisses back, frantically motioning for the pad. “Give me a couple minutes, alright?” _HOW DO YOU KNOW?_

Bruce offers him a sad smile. “Someone in your ear?” _GOT A MESSAGE 2 DAYS AGO._

“All the damn time,” Clint mutters. “They’ve got us surrounded pretty good. Figured you’d be less likely to go off if I came in alone.” _WHAT MESSAGE?_

“It’s okay.” Bruce sets the paper down and picks his jacket up, searching through the pockets.

“They want you to come with. Quietly.”

“I figured.” Bruce nervously shifts his weight. “I don’t think—“

“They’ve got your girlfriend,” Clint blurts out. “The Ross girl.”

Bruce stares at him, nervousness vanishing into horror. He pulls something out of his jacket. “ _Betty_?”

“She’s okay,” Clint says. “Alive. I can prove it. But they have her, and Bruce…” he trails off, thinking about Nat. “I promise you, they’ll hurt her unless you come with me.” He digs the datapad from his pocket and pulls up the feed. “Here, you can see her.” The woman is still pacing in the cell.

The color drains from Bruce’s face. He hands Clint the thing from his jacket, then takes the pad. “Is this live?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, looking at his hand. It’s a postcard from Huntsville, Alabama. No name, no return address. On the back, in extremely familiar handwriting, is two lines.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep_

_I am not there; I do not sleep._

Clint stares at it. Something like hope unfurls in his chest.

Huntsville, Alabama. Birthplace of none other than Nicholas J Fury.

_He’s alive?_

He examines the postcard closely, holding it up to the dim light. Then he runs his fingers over it, searching for differences in the textures. Postcards aren’t his favorite methods of communicating—too easily intercepted and searched—but if Fury really is alive, then he’s probably limited on options. It’ll be something old-school.

Clint finds what he’s looking for after a moment. There’s a slight bulge underneath the stamp. _Microdot._ He peels the stamp back just to be sure, then smooths it back down. Dangerous, but the situation is dire enough to call for desperate measures.

The comm crackles again. “Barton, if you’re not out here in two minutes, we’re coming in.”

“Don’t,” Clint says, hand going to his ear. “We’re coming. I swear. I just showed him the feed. He’s looking at it right now.” He’s grinning now, feeling lighter than he has in ages. Fury is alive, which means SHIELD is still functioning beyond just insurrections. Which means things aren’t quite as hopeless as they were five minutes ago. He carefully tears the stamped section off the card and tucks it into his pocket. He’ll figure out a way to read the dot later.

Bruce hands him the datapad. His face is pale, but determined. On the paper, he writes, _SHIELD?_

Clint nods. _CODE GREEN?_

_CIVILIANS HERE._

Clint clears his throat. “Okay, you see what the stakes are. You understand you have to come with me, right? Without the other guy making a mess?” _WAIT FOR AIRPORT. ON MY SIGNAL._

There’s a box of matches on the portable stove. Clint grabs them and strikes one, then sets both the paper and the postcard on fire. He drops them into the little bathing area.

Bruce nods. “Yeah. Okay.” He looks around the room. “I guess I don’t need to take anything.”

“Probably not.” Clint shifts his weight. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I didn’t want to do this.”

Bruce does that sad smile again. “I don’t think you had a choice,” he says, looking at the bruises around Clint’s neck, and his black eye.

“No. Not really.” Clint reaches for his earpiece. “Okay, we’re coming out.”

“About time,” Rumlow grouses. “Hurry up.”

Clint eases open the door, then steps out. The Soldier is right where he’d left him. He looks at Bruce with a steady gaze, then back at Clint.

“He’s okay,” Clint says, answering the unspoken question. “Everything’s fine. We’re coming.”

They troop down the stairs. At the bottom, Rumlow emerges from the darkness and holds up a pair of handcuffs. “Dr. Banner. Nice to see you again.”

“You must be Rumlow,” Bruce says. “Can’t say the same.”

“You’re good at disappearing,” Rumlow says, cuffing him. “Had us running around for awhile.”

“I learned from the best,” Bruce says again, and he winks at Clint. Clint grins back. He hates everything about this situation, but he can’t deny it’s a relief to see Bruce again.

There’s a young girl watching from the corner of the building. Clint sees her first, barely more than a small brown face peeking out from behind the metal. Bruce sees her too, and he shakes his head at her. _Go,_ he mouths.

Rumlow turns. “Friend of yours?”

“Patient’s daughter,” Bruce says. “Don’t hurt her, she’s just a kid.”

“How’d she get past the perimeter?”

“She lives a couple doors down. Don’t hurt her.”

“She keeps her distance, I won’t have to.” Rumlow tugs on his arm. “Let’s go.”

The girl does not keep her distance. She sprints forward, past the circle of guns, past the Winter Soldier, and throws her thin arms around Bruce. Words spill from her mouth in a frantic rush. Hindi, Clint guesses. He recognizes a few phrases. She clings to Bruce, tears in her brown eyes, clearly begging him for something.

Rumlow sighs. “Get rid of her, Banner.”

Bruce kneels down to her level and murmurs something quietly. The girl shakes her head and clings to him tighter.

“Get rid of her,” Rumlow repeats, a little more frustrated this time.

“She’s worried about her father,” Bruce says. “He’s sick. I’ve been treating him.”

“Do I look like I care about your humanitarian efforts? Get _rid_ of her.”

Bruce starts talking faster, urgency coloring his words. But the girl refuses to let go, and after a moment, Rumlow yanks his gun out and presses it to her head.

Clint moves like a lightning strike. He steps forward and locks Rumlow’s wrist with his left hand and forces it down. At the same time, he drives his shoulder into Rumlow’s chest, plants his feet, and _twists,_ using the outstretched arm as leverage. Rumlow goes down, and Clint rips the gun from his hand. The whole thing takes less than three seconds.

“Run,” he says to the girl, and she sprints away.

Clint lowers the gun. He knows it would be stupid to try anything. There are half a dozen semi-automatics pointed at him, and if his finger even twitches wrong, they’ll all fire. So he doesn’t. He removes the magazine and ejects the cartridge, dropping both into the dirt.

He looks down at Rumlow, who is staring up at him with a stunned expression. Clint flashes him an ice-cold smile. _Surprise, motherfucker._

He reaches down and offers a hand. After a beat, Rumlow takes it. Clint pulls him up.

“That was good,” Rumlow says quietly, taking his gun back. “I’m impressed.”

Then he clocks Clint in the head with it.

Pain bursts like a star and Clint stumbles backwards, hand pressed to the side of his head. It comes away bloody. “Shit,” he mutters, wincing as he presses it back to the wound. His eyes water at the sharpness of it.

“Hey!” Bruce shouts, and all the guns are suddenly trained on him. He’s breathing heavily, eyes wide. “Don’t hurt him!”

“He knows better,” Rumlow says. He tucks his gun back into its holster and meets Clint’s eyes. The threat is there, plain as day, but Clint doesn’t find it so intimidating anymore. He has a microdot in his jacket. Fury is alive. SHIELD is still active. What’s there to be afraid of, now?

“This isn’t over,” Rumlow hisses to him. To the rest of the team, he calls, “Let’s go!”

_No,_ Clint thinks, moving down the street with them. _It sure as fuck isn’t._

Rumlow keeps his face calm as they go back to the trucks, but inside he is absolutely fuming. _That goddamn little bastard._

He hadn’t been lying—it _was_ a good move, almost perfectly executed. He couldn’t have done any better himself. But the fact that it happened at all makes him so _fucking_ angry, he can hardly see straight. Partially his fault, to be fair. He should have expected Barton to do something stupid. The man just can’t seem to help himself. _Him and his goddamn savior complex._

Rumlow wasn’t planning on _killing_ the girl, he’d just wanted her to go. Wanted to get Banner back to the plane and in containment before the guy decided the life of his old girlfriend wasn’t worth the trouble. Contingency plans or not, Rumlow has absolutely no desire to see the Hulk in action. He witnessed it once, on the Helicarrier. He never wants to see it again.

Rumlow rubs his sore wrist and scowls at Barton, who is sitting opposite him, one hand firmly buried in his jacket pocket. He’s talking quietly to Banner, giving him a longer rundown of events since he disappeared. Rumlow’s half-tempted to make him shut up, but it’s fine. Let Barton think he’s won this round. It’ll make the loss later all the more sweet.

He could let the boys have him again. Gibson would certainly be eager, and the rest probably wouldn’t take much convincing. But that runs the risk of setting off Banner, and Rumlow’s not real eager to test the capsule’s strength. The last thing he needs is the Hulk breaking out and rampaging through the plane. Pierce would be pissed if he lost his top agents, Banner, Barton, a plane, _and_ the Asset all in one day .

So it’ll have to wait, then. Which is fine. Gives Rumlow more time to consider the best way to punish him. It’ll have to be public, to make up for putting Rumlow down in front of the team. And brutal, to discourage him from ever doing it again. He’s already planning on calling up Romanoff’s handlers when they land, getting a nice little video to show Barton. Could maybe even get some footage of Cap, if he asks Pierce nicely. The Chair certainly _looks_ like torture, and all Rumlow has to do is spin the pretty narrative of _this is all your fault, why can’t you just behave?_ Barton doesn’t have to know that the Chair is part of Cap’s new routine.

He remembers what Gibson said on the plane. _Did you know he hates blindfolds? Freaks out about them._

That’s another thought. A blindfold, and maybe some noise cancelling headphones or something. Isolate him in his own head, then tie him up somewhere and let whoever wants to have at him. They probably wouldn’t even have to fuck him—Rumlow bets in that position, he could make Barton beg just by touching him. Hell, he could probably get Wicker to bring some of his shit, too. He would _love_ to see Barton take a couple hits from a paddle while blindfolded. Rumlow’s not really into the whole BDSM scene, but the thought of watching Barton writhe helplessly during _that_ is…well, it’s really fucking hot.

_Just you wait,_ he thinks, watching Barton’s hand move inside his jacket. _You think you’re tough? I’m going to fucking_ ruin _you._

The trucks pull up to the runway. At the back, Smith opens the doors. “You’re with me,” Rumlow says, and he grabs Banner’s arm.

Overhead, the sky is still dark, but there’s a hint of dawn on the horizon. They need to get going. “Load up!” he yells at the team. To Barton, he says, “Take the Asset and get the plane ready. I want wheels up ASAP.”

“Okay,” Barton says. He gives Banner a look and taps the Asset. “Come along, Igor.”

Rumlow watches them go. There’s an uneasy feeling creeping at the back of his neck. Like there’s something he’s missing. Something big. Possibly attributed it to the fact that he’s holding the arm of a raging monster disguised as a scientist, but he doesn’t think so.

“Are you okay?” Banner asks, looking at him closely. Rumlow ignores him. He saw something, he’s sure of it. Something small, but very significant. Something Barton was doing in the truck.

Then it hits him.

“Barton!” he yells. “Get back here!”

At the mouth of the plane, Barton stops. He says something to the Asset, who nods in return. Barton claps him on the shoulder, then he jogs back over to Rumlow. “Is there a problem?”

“You tell me,” Rumlow says, letting go of Banner. “Something I should know?”

Barton looks between the two of them, confusion settling over his face. “Look, I know I pissed you off, but you were going to shoot a _kid_ , so—“

“It’s not about that,” Rumlow says. “You’ll be punished for that, don’t worry.”

Barton’s mouth thins, but he says, “Fine. What else is it?”

“I want you to empty your pockets.”

This gets him an eye roll. “Seriously? What the hell do you think I have?”

“Lopez!” Rumlow calls. Lopez comes hurrying over. “Do me a favor and search him, will you?”

“Sure,” Lopez says with a nasty grin. He shoulders his rifle and starts running his hands over Barton, making sure to linger in certain areas. Barton looks visibly furious, but he holds his tongue while Lopez pats him down. “No weapons,” Lopez says. “Anything else?”

“Check his pockets.”

Lopez digs in Barton’s jacket. Rumlow watches his face carefully, but Barton’s face doesn’t change. Not an ounce of worry. And other than the datapad, Lopez’s search comes up empty.

Maybe he was imagining things after all.

Then Lopez makes a confused sound. “Hey,” he says, turning out Barton’s left jacket pocket. There’s a small square of paper in it. He holds it up for Rumlow to see. “What’s this?”

Rumlow takes it. It’s a stamp. An American one, still attached to its small piece of a postcard. He flips it over, but there’s nothing except a torn picture of a landscape on the back. “I don’t know,” he says. “What is it, Barton?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Barton shrugs out of Lopez’s grip. “Man, get your goddamn hands off me before I _break_ them.”

“It was in your pocket,” Rumlow says, cutting off Lopez’s response. “So theoretically, you put it there.”

“I’ve had this jacket for a long time, Rumlow. I don’t empty the pockets on a daily basis.” His voice is casual, his posture unconcerned. “I don’t know why it’s in there. I don’t really care.”

Rumlow hesitates. It’s possible he’s telling the truth. But that uneasy feeling is still in the back of his mind, still blaring a red alert for something he doesn’t know about yet. _If it really means nothing to you, why did you keep your hand in that pocket?_

“Alright,” he starts, and then something catches his eye. The stamp isn’t _quite_ sealed down. Like it’s been pried up and smoothed over, and the adhesive hadn’t stuck well the second time.

He lets go of Banner and picks at the stamp. It peels up easily. Rumlow squints at it, then holds it up in the headlights of the truck.

It’s a fucking microdot.

“Goddamn it, Barton,” he sighs, pressing the stamp back down. “You really like to double down on your idiocy, don’t you?”

The charade is gone. Barton is standing very still, his eyes fixed on Rumlow. “Can’t help myself,” he finally says, his hands flexing.

“I’ll say.” Rumlow shakes his head. “Lopez, take Banner. Barton and I need to have a little chat.”

Lopez grins and reaches for Banner’s arm. “Sure thing.”

Barton grabs his wrist. “Bruce,” he says conversationally, looking Lopez dead in the eyes with a hint of a smile. “Now would be a really good time to get angry.”

“That’s my secret, Clint,” Banner says, and fear starts to trickle through Rumlow. “I’m always angry.”

The puzzle pieces snap into place, but it’s too late. Green is flickering over Banner’s face, making him broader, taller. Angrier. He transforms in a heartbeat, mild-mannered scientist giving way to unstoppable monster, popping the handcuffs like tissue paper. There is a moment where they all stand there, staring at the Hulk that has suddenly appeared in their midst.

Then Rumlow says, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and everything goes to shit.

The Hulk roars. Barton pulls Lopez’s arm forward and slams down on it with a fist. The crack is sharp, and Lopez lets out a scream as he pulls his broken arm into his body. Barton reaches down and grabs his sidearm, then fires it twice with deadly precision. Lopez’s body collapses to the ground in a pool of blood and brains.

He aims at Rumlow just as gunfire breaks out around them. Barton immediately dives for cover behind one truck, Rumlow behind another. He jams the microdot into his pocket and pulls out his own gun. The Hulk roars again and runs straight at the team, blowing through them like they’re nothing. A couple of the nearby ones drop like they’ve been shot, and Rumlow looks around the wheel to see Barton kneeling by the other truck’s engine. Some of the smarter agents run for it, heading into the plane. _That won’t save you,_ Rumlow thinks. He quickly keys his comms back on. “We have a problem. Send backup. _Now_.”

“I see it,” says a calm voice in reply. “Calling in Veronica now.”

“We’re going to need a new plane, too.” He winces as the Hulk jumps on the plane and rips off one of the wings. “Stark’s toys better fucking work, or—.”

Something hits him hard from behind, sending him crashing forward to the ground. Rumlow rolls instinctively, coming up on one knee, hand reaching for his gun—

It’s gone. He dumbly pats around for a moment, then looks up. Like an angel of death, Barton is standing there in the shadows, holding Rumlow’s gun. “Sorry,” he says, flashing the stamp in his other hand. “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow these.”

“Depends,” Rumlow says, a little impressed at being pickpocketed so well. “Are you planning on shooting me with that?” He nods at the gun.

“I told you I would,” Barton says, tightening his grip as he tucks the stamp away. “The first day. Right after you shot Sharon. Remember?”

_There’s the tiger_ , Rumlow thinks, marveling at the deadly look in Barton’s eyes. “Yeah. I remember.” He lets out a small laugh. “I guess I should have believed you.”

“You should have,” Barton agrees. The gun is perfectly steady, aimed right at Rumlow’s chest. He won’t miss. He never does.

Rumlow doesn’t try to get up. He just spreads his arms out wide. “You gonna do it?”

“I want to know something first.”

“What’s that?”

“Was it worth it?”

Rumlow laughs. “Sweetheart,” he says, grinning. “I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.”

And he would. Even if it brought him here every time. He doesn’t care if it ended up burning him. That’s half the fun of playing with fire.

There’s a whistling noise above him, and he looks up to see the first of Stark’s toys coming in to play. Barton looks up too, distracted for a moment, and Rumlow thinks _maybe—_

He starts to move.

There’s flashes of light in quick succession, like a _one two three_ —

A searing pain in his chest.

The feel of concrete under his cheek.

Then nothing.

As soon as Rumlow is down, Clint takes off sprinting towards Hulk. He doesn’t know what the flying things are, but he has a bad feeling about them. Sure enough, one of them lands right next to Hulk, immediately lighting him up with a flare of electricity.

“Bruce!” Clint screams, running faster, but he’s not fast enough to outrun Tony’s machines. The rest of the things land, surrounding Hulk and forming a kind of metal prison. The roar of pain and outrage is suddenly cut off as the pieces all fold and interlock. Clint runs right up to it and pounds on the metal. “Bruce! BRUCE!”

No answer. Not even an answering bang. Clint tries again, walks around the whole thing, tries to pry it open. No luck.

He’s seriously considering busting it open with some grenades when he hears a familiar voice behind him, “Where is Rumlow?”

Clint turns around. The Soldier is standing there, watching him. He’s still holding his rifle, and calmly surveying the field of bodies around them.

“Over there,” Clint says. “I put three bullets in his chest. Can you open this?”

The Soldier examines the interlocking pieces. He tries to pull them open, but even with his metal arm, they stay together. “No. I'm sorry.”

“Goddamnit Stark,” Clint mutters, feeling an urge to punch the logo on the side. “ _Bruce_ is in there.”

There’s a knock suddenly on the side of the prison, and a very muffled but unmistakable voice. “CLINT!”

“Bruce!” Clint pounds on the metal. “Bruce, it’s Clint, can you hear me?”

A moment of silence, and then, “GO!”

“Not without you!” Clint shouts back. He has no idea if Bruce can hear him or not, but he’s not leaving without his friend.

“GO!” Hulk shouts again, accompanied by another bang. “GO NOW!”

“He is right,” the Soldier says. “Backup is on the way. You should go.”

Clint swears and kicks the metal again. “Come on!” he shouts, raising his face to the slowly lightening sky. “It’s NOT FUCKING FAIR!”

“GO NOW!” Hulk shouts. “CLINT GO NOW!”

“Backup will be arriving in two minutes,” the Soldier says, one hand pressed to his ear.

Clint grits his teeth, but he already knows what decision he’s going to make. The engines in the distance are getting closer. He can’t help Bruce right now. He especially can’t help him if Hydra picks him up again. His best chance right now is to run, and hope like hell he can get Bruce out later.

Rumlow is dead. No one is watching him. This is his moment. He’s never gonna have a better one than this.

_Run_ , the familiar voice in the back of his mind says. _Disappear_.

“Come with me,” he says to the Soldier. “Please?”

The Soldier looks at him, then at the bodies strewn around them. Clint waits for the brooding face to draw together. Waits for the _no_ , and hopes it doesn’t hurt to hear. He can run alone. It’s the first thing he learned how to do. But he doesn’t want to. Not this time.

Instead, the Soldier tightens his grip on his gun. “Yes,” he says, and there’s suddenly a trace of a Brooklyn accent in his voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If we can get into the city, we might be able to lose them.” The sun is coming up, breaking over the horizon. They need to end this soon, before the risk of innocent bystanders getting caught in the crossfire increases. “We’d do better on foot anyway, there’s lots of places to disappear and they’re probably tracking the truck—“ He cuts off and looks at the cuffs around his wrists. “ _Fuck_ me.”

The Soldier sets about commandeering one of the trucks while Clint robs the nearest bodies of their weapons. He already has Rumlow’s gun, but it never hurts to have more. He meets the Soldier by a truck with his arms full. “Ready?”

“Yes,” the Soldier says. Clint hands him some of the weapons and swings into the passenger seat. The Soldier gets in the other side, and the truck starts rumbling down the runway. 

“I don’t suppose you have a plan,” Clint says, checking one of the rifles. Standard M16. Nothing special. He tucks a couple magazines into his pocket and looks in the rearview mirror, counting the headlights coming towards them. “Considering that backup is almost here.”

The Soldier presses the gas harder. “Eliminate targets. Get to a safe position.”

“Great. Good talk.” Clint rolls down the window. “Let’s take these guys out first, then.”

He awkwardly maneuvers himself out the window, legs in the seat, and ass on the ledge. The position is less than fun, considering his earlier…adventures, but he takes the pain with gritted teeth and sights down the rifle. 

His first shots hit the engine block of the lead truck, and almost immediately white smoke starts pouring out of it. The truck wobbles, then swerves hard to the left, cutting off the one next to it. Clint takes aim at the one on the right and fires again. This one is a little smarter, and the driver immediately starts evasive maneuvers. Clint takes a couple shots at the tires, but they’re clearly reinforced, so he abandons that idea and goes back to aiming for the engine. He wishes he had his bow. Particularly the exploding arrows. Or an RPG, that would do nicely. 

“Go north,” he calls to the Soldier. “I saw it when we came in, there’s a road—“

“I saw it,” comes the reply, and the truck suddenly swerves hard. Clint hooks an arm on the rearview mirror and hangs on for dear life with one hand while shooting with the other. It’s not very accurate, but the spray of bullets makes the pursuing trucks swerve again. The smoking truck hits the brakes and comes to a stop. _Anticlimactic_ , Clint thinks, but at least there’s only two now.

Then they start shooting back at him, which pisses him off. He ducks back inside the truck and swaps the spent magazine for a fresh one. “You should drive faster,” he says, aiming the gun out the window and firing blindly. “Please.”

“I am _working_ on it,” the Soldier says, teeth clenched. 

“If we can get into the city, we might be able to lose them.” The sun is coming up, breaking over the horizon. They need to end this soon, before the risk of innocent bystanders getting caught in the crossfire increases. “We’d do better on foot anyway, there’s lots of places to disappear and they’re probably tracking the truck—“ He cuts off and looks at the cuffs around his wrists. “ _Fuck_ me.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, firing again. “See these?” He rattles one of the cuffs. “They LoJacked me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They won’t be tracking the truck, they’ll be tracking _me_. Unless we can get these off, they’re gonna be able to find us.” He scowls at the cuffs, kicking himself for forgetting. He’s gotten so used to wearing them that he hadn’t even thought about it, and that just makes him angrier. “I’m going to kill Rumlow. Again. I’m going to bring him back to life just so I can kill him again.”

“How can you get them off?”

“Short of cutting off my hands? I don’t know. Rumlow could do it. I never got a chance to ask Tony if he had any ideas.” He shoots out the window again. "Should've grabbed his phone too, goddammit."  


The truck swerves again, and Clint braces himself. “Can you contact him?” the Soldier asks, eyes fixed on the road ahead. They’re coming up on the airport terminal, and he’s not slowing down. 

“Who, Tony?” Clint eyes the fence. “I don’t know. Maybe. Where are you going?”

“North.” The truck accelerates more, whining and protesting. “Like you said.”

“Okay, but I meant the _road—_ “

“The gate is closed. Rumlow had a team in place to open it. We do not.”

“I get that, but the only other option is to drive through the _terminal_ , and I don’t think—“

“Hold on,” the Soldier says. 

Clint swears loudly and holds on as the truck bursts through the windows of the terminal with a shattering of glass and a lot of screaming. The Solider stomps on the brake and yanks hard on the wheel, pulling a sharp ninety-degree turn. Clint jams his feet against the floor in an effort to stop himself from sliding out of his seat. “Jesus Christ!” he yells. “Watch out for the—“

“I _see_ them,” the Soldier says, swerving around a screaming couple of people. “Go cover behind us and stop telling me how to drive!” 

The Brooklyn accent is back, but Clint doesn’t have time to dwell on whatever’s going on with him. He takes the guns and crawls over the seat to the back. Then he kicks open a door and braces it with his foot, seating himself on the floor. He holds the rifle and aims it, waiting for their pursuers to follow the path of destruction laid out for them. 

It doesn’t take long. They burst through the windows and follow, tires squealing in protest. Clint shoots, hoping that anyone in their path has done the reasonable thing and found cover. The cars swerve, and a man with a gun hangs out the window. Clint shoots first and nails him in the head. Then he fires a spray of bullets at the glass. It’s bulletproof, but he concentrates on the driver’s face anyway, hoping to at least distort his vision.

“Sharp turn,” the Solider yells back to him, and Clint winds an arm around one of the seat supports and holds on for dear life. _Sharp turn_ is a fucking understatement, he’s pretty sure the truck actually pitches up onto one side as they skid around a corner. Then there’s another shattering of glass, and suddenly they’re outside the terminal and booking it up an actual road. Clint raises the gun again, waiting for the bad guys to follow. 

They don’t. He stays back there for a long moment, but when nothing appears to chase them, he yanks the door closed again and crawls back up towards the front. “I think we might have thrown them on that last one,” he says, trying not to scream as the Soldier swerves around a couple cars. “I still think we should ditch the truck. They’re gonna come for us whether or not we’re driving, and at least on foot we can hide in crowds.”

“They will follow us.”

“Of course they will. But you _literally_ just drove through an airport terminal; the police are going to be crawling all over this. The truck is visible. We should lose it.”

They take an exit and get off the main highway, then end up ditching the truck a few turns after that. Clint decides not to take his rifle with him. Too high profile and he doesn’t have enough ammo anyway. The Soldier does the same. They both load up on everything else and take to the streets, walking without a purpose, taking random turns, moving as quickly as they can.

It’s still early in the morning. There are plenty of people out, but not as many as there _could_ be. Clint estimates it’s probably an hour or so before real rush hour begins. He'd rather there be bigger crowds for cover, but the lowered risk to civilians is probably a good tradeoff. “Why don’t we—“ he starts to say, but then there’s a whistling noise, and a bullet shatters the bricks by his head. Clint curses and drags the Soldier back into cover with him, pulling his gun out at the same time.

“Silencers,” the Soldier says, eyes darting around. “There. By the yellow door.” 

“So much for a low profile,” Clint mutters. “So do we shoot back, and draw attention to ourselves? Or do we try to hide?” 

The Soldier grabs the gun out of his hand and fires three shots. The blast shatters the relative stillness of the morning and sends people screaming, scrambling for cover. 

“Guess that answers that question,” Clint says as he steps back behind the wall.

“None of this will matter if they can find us,” the Soldier says, handing the gun back to Clint and taking out his own. “Even if we kill all of them. They will keep coming.”

“I _know_ that,” Clint snaps, peeking around the corner. He sees a couple more guys in obvious Hydra gear. “But I have no idea how to get these off. I don’t even know if they _can_ come off.” He fires a couple shots down the street at another head, then pulls back. 

A thought occurs to him, even though it makes him flinch to say it. “You could go.”

“What?” The Soldier shoots again.

“It’s me they’re tracking. You could go. Then at least one of us is out.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “No.”

“It would probably—”

“I said _no_.” His voice leaves no room for discussion. “Think of something else.”

Clint looks around. There’s a terrified man crouching against the wall in the alley opposite them. He’s in a suit and tie, clutching a briefcase to his chest. Clint spares him a glance, then feels the start of an idea bloom in his mind. “Cover me,” he says to the Soldier. “I’m going over there.”

The Soldier doesn’t ask. “Covering,” he says, and he starts a barrage of gunfire. Clint bursts out from behind the wall and sprints across the street, tucking and rolling into safety until he’s next to the cowering man.

“Hey,” Clint says. “I need your phone.”

The man stares at him uncomprehendingly. 

“ _Phone_ ,” Clint says again, a little more urgently, miming with his thumb and pinky. “Talking. Give it to me.”

The man whimpers a little as there’s more gunfire, but he obligingly digs in his pocket and pulls out a phone. Clint can’t read the language, but he swipes through until he finds the phone app, then pulls it up. He dials a number from memory and puts it to his ear, praying to every god he can think of that this will work. It’s a Hail Mary of a Hail Mary, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

There’s movement at a window above the Soldier. Clint watches, sees the muzzle of a gun, and fires twice. The man falls out the window and lands on the stones behind the Soldier, who merely looks at him with mild interest before nodding at Clint. 

The phone clicks. “Stark Industries private line, how may I help you?”

“JARVIS!” Clint grins, feeling relief blast through him. “Hey. It’s Clint. Listen, I need Tony like right now, can you get him?”

“I will see what I can do,” the A.I. says, ever so polite, and the line hums in Clint’s ear. He busies himself with watching above the Soldier, waiting for another ambush. They can’t stay here. It’s too exposed, there's too many people, and he can hear sirens in the distance. 

The line comes back to life a minute later. “Clint Barton, you son of a bitch. I thought you were dead.”

“Hello to you too Tony,” Clint says. “Not dead yet.” He fires again, knocking out another agent. Twelve rounds left. He needs to get back to the Soldier. “But some people are trying really fucking hard to make it otherwise.”

“So I can hear.” 

“Are you safe? Is Rollins around?”

“I’m in the bathroom, pretending to shower. JARVIS patched you through.”

_Cover me_ , Clint mouths at the Soldier, and he nods. “You have a phone in your shower?”

“I live a busy life. What do you need? Why am I hearing gunfire?”

“It’s a long story.” Clint sprints back across the road and slams against the wall, breathing heavily. “You remember you scanned my cuffs that day Rumlow brought me?”

“Yes.”

“I need a way to get them off. Sooner rather than later.” The Soldier jerks his head towards a side door, and Clint follows, eyes up. “I’m in the middle of a grand escape, but it’s not going to last long if I keep wearing tracking devices.”

“You can’t get them off,” Tony says. “Not that I saw. From everything we scanned, it looks like made from the same stuff Thor’s hammer is. Or at least something very similar. It’s all magical and Asgardian. They’re not coming off unless you decide you don’t like your hands.”

The Soldier fires a burst through the door, blowing the lock open. Clint follows, gun still aimed up. “Well, fuck.”

“Hang on, now. It’s not all bad.” He grunts, like he’s leaning over to get something. “The outside is impenetrable. But the inside isn’t. The inside is made of lovely Hydra technology, and I’m happy to report that it’s perfectly breakable.”

“Awesome. How do I break it?” They’re in a staircase now, with rickety metal stairs leading upwards. Clint nudges the Soldier and points at them. The Soldier scowls, but goes first, leading the way with his rifle raised. 

“Overloading the system is the best shot,” Tony says, sounding a little distracted, like he’s trying to work through something as he’s talking. “There’s lots of pretty little computer pieces in there, and while they might like delivering electricity, they certainly won’t like taking it. You need to directly contact it with something that can overload it.”

“Like?”

“Like something with high-voltage.”

“Tony, these things are _attached_ to me.” Clint follows the Soldier up, hating every moment. Going upstairs is the most dangerous part of any raid. The bad guy has the high ground and you have the disadvantage of leading with your head. 

“I know that. I’m just thinking out loud here.”

“How about giving options that _don’t_ involve me electrocuting myself to death?”

“Picky, picky, aren’t we? I’m _working_ on it.”

“Sir,” JARVIS cuts in. “I believe I’ve isolated the program they are using to track Agent Barton.”

Tony sounds confused. “You have? Did I tell you to do that?”

“Who cares?” Clint looks around the next landing, then checks below. They’re three levels from the top. No one has come after them. “JARVIS, can you do something about it? Cut it off?”

For a computer program, the voice manages to sound apologetic. “Not at this time. If I interfere significantly with the tracking, they will trace the attempt back here, and Mr. Stark will be in danger. I could potentially design a program, but it will take more time than you currently have.”

Clint scowls. “Great. Can you—“

“Hang on,” Tony interrupts. “JARVIS, what data do you have from the cuffs?”

“Location, activation times and limits, vital status, number of activations—“

“Hang on again. Activation _limits_?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s the limit?”

“It appears to be set at twenty-five seconds, sir. Because of the specific metal surrounding it, any longer than that would likely cause them to overheat, and the technology inside to be adversely affected.”

Tony lets out a little laugh. “There you go, Clint.”

They’re at the top of the staircase. The Soldier reaches for the door. Below them, there’s a thunderous boom, and the sound of boots on metal.

“Fuck,” Clint says, and they quickly get onto the roof. “Tony, I’m running out of time here. It doesn’t matter if I get away if they can find me.”

“We can set them off from here,” Tony says. “That’s our overload. If we disable the limits and let them run past…oh, thirty seconds or so, it’ll destroy the tech inside. Then they’re just clunky bracelets, which is totally your style, by the way. And we can work on getting them off later.”

The Soldier turns to him. “We need to go,” he says. “We will have to jump.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clint says again. “Tony, are you sure that’ll work?”

“Like seventy percent. Maybe eighty.”

_Jesus_. Clint grimaces. Thirty seconds of the cuffs going off is going to feel like absolute hell. “Is it going to kill me in the process?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t look like voltage isn’t set high enough. But this will also be a prolonged exposure, so…” He lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. “I’m not sure. There’s a chance it might stop your heart.”

Great. Fucking great. Clint resists the urge to scream. “JARVIS, you said you can’t interfere with the tracking significantly. Is there any way you can buy us at least some time?”

There’s banging against the metal door, and the Soldier gestures urgently. “We need to move. Now.”

“I can scramble their data for ten minutes, Agent Barton. Anything more than—”

“That’s perfect,” Clint interrupts. “I’ll call back in ten. I have to jump off a roof now.” He shoves the phone in his pocket and runs over to the Soldier. “Where?”

“There,” the Soldier says, pointing. “From this building to that one. We can access the street.”

Clint follows the pointed finger. He sees what the Soldier’s talking about—a few of the roofs are close enough to jump, and there’s definitely a way to the ground. Unfortunately, it involves multiple drops onto concrete. “This is going to _suck_ ,” he says, backing up a little.

“Yes,” the Soldier agrees, and then they’re going for it. 

The drop isn’t long enough for Clint to enjoy the free-fall. It’s just a stomach-dropping sense of _oh god oh god oh god_ and then _slam_ , right into the concrete. He keeps his feet down and together, drops into a roll as soon as he makes contact. _I am too_ old _for this bullshit._

He pops up to his feet and follows the Soldier off the edge to the next one, and then the next one, until finally they’re on the last roof. This one is still too high to the ground, but it has a fire escape, so Clint gratefully takes that instead. Halfway down, the Soldier rushes past him in a free fall. He hits the ground and absorbs the impact silently, gloved hand touching the dirt at his feet. Then he straightens up and looks at Clint. “That way is slower.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint says, hopping over the railing and landing next to him. “I’m only human. Also I enjoy having all my bones un-shattered.”

“I’m human,” the Soldier says, and for a moment he sounds offended. Clint fights the urge to laugh.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “Come on. We gotta get out of sight.”

They turn down a few random streets and burst through the back door of what looks like a hair salon. It’s closed. The lights are off and the front windows are shuttered with newspapers. “Okay,” Clint says, looking around. “I think this will work.”

He digs the phone out of his pocket and dials again, putting it on speaker this time. Tony answers immediately. “Barton? You okay?”

“Slightly battered. Still breathing.”

“How was the roof jumping?”

“It sucked. How long do we have?”

JARVIS cuts in. “Agent Barton, I can continue to scramble the code for another five minutes.”

“And in the meantime,” Tony says, “I did a little more digging around and found the schematics for your jewelry. I was right. Thirty seconds, and it’ll knock out the interior stuff for good. I have the code, and we can set them off from here.”

“Right,” Clint says. _Thirty seconds is a long, long time._ “And the killing me part?”

“The voltage isn’t set high enough to kill straight up,” Tony says. “But the longest you’ve been exposed is fifteen seconds. There’s a chance longer than that could send you into cardiac arrest.”

Clint lets out a hysterical laugh. “So cardiac arrest or re-kidnapped by Hydra, those are my options?”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, and he does sound sorry. “If you were here, I could help more. But I don’t have access to my labs, or to you, or the cuffs. This is the only option I can see that doesn’t involve mutilating you.”

Clint rubs his temples and wonders just how his life got to this point. “Fucking hell.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey. Dracula.” The Soldier turns from inspecting the windows. “You know what CPR is?”

“Cardiopulmonary resuscitation,” the Soldier says. “An inefficient method of manually preserving intact brain functions until further measures can be taken to restore spontaneous blood circulation and breathing for a person in cardiac arrest. It—”

“Thanks, Wikipedia. Do you know how to do it?”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” Tony asks. “Is Rumlow—“

“I shot Rumlow in the heart,” Clint says, “and left his body on a runway.” Tony is silent, and Clint looks back up at the Soldier. “Well?”

The Soldier nods. “I know.”

“Great.” Clint drops his weapons in a pile and peels off his jacket. “Okay. Tony is going to send a shock through the cuffs. It’s going to go on for thirty seconds and overheat the tech inside so the tracking system goes down. I need you to stand by and monitor, because there’s a very good chance it’s going to send me into cardiac arrest. In which case I might need CPR. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Clint,” Tony says. “I don’t know about this. If you give me some time—“

“We don’t _have_ time, Tony. We have less than five minutes. I’m not going back to Hydra, and I’m not sending him back either.”

“Who?”

“Tony, the cuffs.”

“Clint—“

“Tony!”

“Fine!” There’s a clicking sound, and then Tony says, “Ready?”

Clint takes a deep breath and lays down on the floor, figuring that’ll be easier than falling and whacking his head. “Yeah. Do it.”

“JARVIS, give us a count, buddy.”

“Starting overload in five…four…”

Clint locks eyes with the Soldier. There are no words between, just a silent understanding, and something that looks a lot like worry in those blue eyes.

Then the cuffs light up, and the thoughts vanish from his head like a nuclear bomb going off, explosive and brilliant and burning. It’s like fire, it’s like thousands of ants crawling over him, it’s like having every individual muscle torn apart at the seams individually and he can’t breathe there’s not enough room for air there is only the pain and the sparks behind his eyes _kill me oh god please just let me die let me die let me_

Darkness.

Silence.

And then—

Then—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the reactions to the last chapter, reading your comments made this whole week just absolutely fantastic. I love how invested you are in the story and I just want to say that I appreciate every single one of you. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It makes you empty,” the Soldier says, bitterness in every word. “It takes away everything from before and leaves you with nothing. And then they come in and fill you with what they want.” He looks up at Clint. “This is not what I started with. But I don’t remember what that was anymore.”
> 
> “They took your memories,” Clint says, his voice barely a whisper. “That’s it, isn’t it? They put you in there and wipe your mind clean.” _Brainwashing._ That’s what Rumlow had meant, about Cap getting his brain fried. “How often?”
> 
> “I don’t know,” the Soldier says. “It must have been many times. They had a protocol.” He thinks for a second, then adds, “They were good at it.”

Coming back to life _sucks._

The first thing he’s aware of is horrible gasping sound, which he realizes after a moment is coming from him. Then the nausea wells up, and he seizes up a little, spraying vomit into the air before something turns him over onto his side. He heaves his guts out onto the floor, uncaring that it gets on his face. When the nausea recedes, he curls up into himself and vaguely wishes that he was still dead. 

There’s cold on his forehead. He’s grateful for it, because it’s about the only thing that feels good right now. 

“Clint,” says a low voice. “Can you hear me?”

Clint. That’s his name? He slits one eye open, sees a concerned face looking back at him. _Blue?_ It’s familiar. Friendly. _Safe._

“Can you hear me?”

He swallows, winces at the rawness in his throat. “Yeah.”

It’s more of a screech than an actual word, but it does the trick. Relief replaces the concern. “ _Слава Богу_ ,” he says. Clint doesn’t know what it means, but he likes the way the man’s lips form around the words. “Can you sit up?”

No. Clint isn’t sure he ever wants to move again. Everything _hurts_ , like someone dragged him behind a truck, then dropped him off a cliff, then kicked him in the head for good measure. He thinks he’s been beat up before, but certainly nothing as awful as this. 

He closes his eyes again, trying to remember what happened. There was…something. Running. They were running. And he was talking to someone. And then…

Something touches him and gently wipes his face off. A hand. Cold hand. Metal. 

_Winter Soldier,_ his mind supplies. He doesn’t know what that means.

“We need to go,” the concerned voice says. “I do not think we are safe here.” There’s some shuffling noises, like something’s being grabbed.

Danger. That sounds right. They were in danger. They needed to run.

“I will carry you.”

Strong arms scoop under him, lifting him like he’s nothing. Clint keeps his eyes closed until he’s settled onto a firm pair of shoulders. He sees something on the floor, a small black thing next to the puddle of vomit. _Phone?_

“Phone,” he croaks, and the man carrying him stoops to pick it up before opening the door. Clint watches the floor under him change from beat up tile to dirty concrete, and thinks about how much it would suck to drop onto that. 

There’s a gun in the man’s belt. Handgun. Beretta M9. He knows that, although he can’t remember why. He lets his eyes focus on the grip, the edge of the muzzle. Drifts down to the curve of the tight pants underneath it. He could look at this for awhile, he thinks, hazily watching the shifting muscles as the man walks. It’s a nice view.

A flicker of movement catches his attention. A woman, walking behind them. At first he thinks it’s just a person, but then she raises something big and black and—

Tranquilizer gun, he realizes, recognizing the extended barrel. Bad. Very bad. 

His hand closes over the Beretta and he pulls hard, getting it out and up in one smooth motion. He fires. The woman stumbles, a hole appearing in her thigh. 

Then Clint is tumbling to the ground, and there’s a flash of silver past him. He watches from the ground, hand still on the Beretta, as the man throws a single punch with a metal arm. The woman drops like a marionette and doesn’t move again. 

The man— _Winter Soldier_ , his brain screams again—looks around wildly, eyes darting from side to side. When no other threats appear, he jogs back over to Clint. “Nice shot.”

_I was aiming for her head._ He winces, tries to push himself up with uncoordinated muscles. 

“I didn’t mean to drop you like that,” the Soldier says, helping him sit up. “Are you alright?”

Clint looks up at him. He likes this guy, he thinks. “Yeah.”

The Soldier pulls him upright, then slings him over his shoulders again. “We need to keep moving.” He starts walking down the alley.

Clint’s memories slowly slot into place as they keep walking, although he still feels like someone scrambled his brains. He hangs onto the Beretta and watches the Soldier’s back, waiting for someone else to appear.

No one does. The Soldier ducks into a row of small residential houses, then carefully breaks into one. He deposits Clint onto a moderately comfy cushion by the window, then draws the curtains closed. “We can stay here for a short time,” he says. “Long enough for you to recover.”

Clint nods. Staying here sounds good. 

The Soldier brings him a glass of water, which he manages to drink all by himself like a big boy. Then he maneuvers himself upright and leans against the wall. “So…did it work?”

“We think so,” the Soldier says. “I spoke to your friend and he said the tracking program stopped. Your last reported position was twenty minutes south of here.”

“Good old JARVIS.” He holds out his hand for the phone. “I should call. Tony probably thinks I’m dead.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “He said he would call when it was safe.”

Fair enough. Clint is out. Tony’s the one still in danger. He sits up a little more, then puts a hand on his chest. “ _Did_ I die?”

“No,” the Soldier says. “You stopped breathing and went into mild cardiac arrest. I resuscitated you within a minute. That’s all.”

“Oh, that’s _all_.” He pulls his shirt up and prods at his chest, biting back a groan of pain. “Hence the bruised ribs, I suppose.” He doesn’t think they’re broken, but they hurt like a bitch. Moving around is going to be _hell_.

“Sorry,” the Soldier says, and Clint waves a hand.

“Don’t apologize. You saved my life.” He pauses, then says, “I stopped breathing?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He should be more worried about that, but suddenly all he can think about is the Soldier’s mouth against his, and what that might have felt like. He wishes he’d been awake for it.

He shakes his head. _C’mon, man. You’re running for your life. This is really isn’t the time._

The Soldier sits at the little kitchen table and lays his metal hand on it, palm up. Clint watches with interest. He removes two of the plates from the wrist with a little tool from his pocket, then starts digging around inside with practiced movements. 

“Did it break?” Clint asks.

“No.” There’s a short zap, and he yanks his flesh hand away with a little hiss of surprise. “I needed another source of electricity. For your heart.”

“You shocked me _again_?” No wonder he feels like crap.

“CPR alone is unlikely to spontaneously restart the heart,” the Soldier says, still focused on his hand. “And yours didn’t restart at all. I tried two rounds before your friend advised a different method.” 

Clint rubs at his chest and tries not to think about the long-term ramifications of electrocuting the utter crap out of his heart. “Well. Thanks for sacrificing your hand.” _And saving my life._

“It will be fine.” He hisses again, then a look of satisfaction comes over his face. He lifts the hand and moves through a few dexterity exercises with it. “It occasionally malfunctions in the field. I know how to perform routine maintenance.” He puts the panels back on and tucks the tool into his pocket. 

Clint peeks out the curtains to the street. There’s a woman walking her dog, but other than that, he doesn’t see any hint of Hydra. “We can’t stay here long,” he says.

“I said once you—“

“No, I mean here. The city. Mumbai.”

The Soldier nods. “Where do you want to go?”

Where does he want to go? He thinks of an island somewhere, far away from everybody. No cameras, no hidden Hydra agents, no missions. Just the sun and the surf, and the potential for skinny-dipping with a certain silver-armed handsome bastard. _We could,_ he thinks, and the possibility is tantalizingly close. _We could just run away. Vanish forever._

Then reality rears its stupid head. It doesn’t matter. Even if they did fuck off to their own little Gilligan’s island, he would be consumed with guilt for Nat, and Cap, and all the rest. He can’t abandon them. 

“We should start with Natasha,” Clint says. “She’s my partner. My best friend. She can help us.”

The Soldier nods. “Where is she?”

“The Red Room.” There’s a sharp intake of breath at that, and Clint looks at him. “I take it you know what that is.”

“You are sure?” the Soldier asks. 

“She told me.” Clint thinks back to their last conversation, the desperate scramble to make up a lie Rumlow would believe. “The last time Rumlow let me talk to her. Right before we hung up she said ‘sometimes human places create inhuman monsters.’” He looks down at his hands. “It’s a code between us. An old joke from a Stephen King book. She was trying to warn me that the Red Room had her. Or was involved, somehow. So we need to start there. Wherever that is. If it’s even a place.” 

There’s a creaking sound, and Clint looks over in time to see the Soldier remove his hand from a dent in the table. “It is a place. A dangerous one.”

“I’m aware,” Clint says, eyeing the dent. That’ll be hard to explain. “Believe me.” Nat has never been forthcoming with her stories, but he’s prized enough out of her over the years to know that her childhood made his look like a walk in the park. “But I have to. They’re torturing her.”

“That’s what they do,” the Soldier says. “I know.”

“You’ve been there?”

“I was made there.”

Clint leans forward. “What does that mean? You were born there?”

The Soldier hesitates, then says, “I don’t know.”

Clint remembers what Rumlow had said to him at the beginning, about Cap. _They’re probably going to turn him into the Winter Soldier 2.0._ “What did they do to you?”

The Soldier shudders. “The Chair,” he says, his eyes going dark. His face is stoic, but his body is tense. Clint knows what fear looks like.

“I take it you’re not referring to a recliner.”

“It is…” He searches for the word, then says, “Hell.”

Well, that sounds _delightful_. Clint plays with one of his cuffs and winces at the reddened, irritated skin under it. “What does it do?”

“The Chair is a gift,” he says. His voice changes, becoming stiffer, more robotic. “It takes away the suffering that everyone else must experience, and it gives you a purpose. You are lucky to have this opportunity.”

Clint stares at him. “That…sounds horrifying. Someone told you that?”

“Pierce,” the Soldier says softly. “And…others.”

It’s not a surprise—he’s known about Pierce since Hydra reared its ugly head, Rumlow had been real eager to rub that particular tidbit in—but it’s still awful to hear. The Soldier is looking at the floor, apparently lost in thought.

“But what does it do?” Clint asks. “What was it built for?”

“It makes you empty,” the Soldier says, bitterness in every word. “It takes away everything from before and leaves you with nothing. And then they come in and fill you with what _they_ want.” He looks up at Clint. “This is not what I started with. But I don’t remember what that was anymore.”

“They took your memories,” Clint says, his voice barely a whisper. “That’s it, isn’t it? They put you in there and wipe your mind clean.” _Brainwashing_. That’s what Rumlow had meant, about Cap getting his brain fried. “How often?”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier says. “It must have been many times. They had a protocol.” He thinks for a second, then adds, “They were _good_ at it.”

Clint takes in this new information. “So the Red Room wiped all your memories and turned you into the Winter Soldier.” He studies the man. “Why you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that what they’re doing to Cap?”

“Who is Cap?”

“Blond guy. The one from the—” He swallows, suddenly feeling the chill of the surgery room again. “From when we met the first time. He was on the table before me.”

“Oh. Yes, I remember him.”

“He’s my friend,” Clint says. “Rumlow told me that they were frying his brain and turning him into the Winter Soldier 2.0.”

“They used the Chair on him. I saw it.”

Clint sags against the wall. “Jesus,” he mutters, thinking of Cap being turned into the man sitting in front of him. Not that he doesn’t like the Soldier, but Cap doesn’t deserve that. He’s too pure to be emptied out and stuffed full of Hydra bullshit.

“They have used the Chair on many people, I think,” the Soldier says. “But he fought hard. He held onto things. They were still trying to empty him when I left.”

“Figures,” Clint says. If anyone could handle that, it would be Steve Rogers. The man pretty much bleeds patriotism and the high moral ground. Hydra’s gonna have a hell of a time taking that from him. It’s practically embedded into his DNA. “I guess we’ll have to save him after Nat.” He scratches his head. “Which brings us back full circle. We need to get to the Red Room. Do you know where it is?”

The Soldier is quiet. After a long moment, he says, “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Belarus.”

Clint pictures a map of world in his head. That’s a _long_ way to go, and they’re going to be hunted every step of the way. Not to mention the fact that they have absolutely no supplies, and it’s not like he can just call SHIELD—

“Oh!” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the stamp with the microdot underneath it. It’s still there. “I’m such an _idiot_ , I forgot about this—“ He starts to get up, then staggers as his legs waver underneath him.

The Soldier is across the room in half a second, gloved hand gripping Clint’s elbow and pulling him up. “Be careful,” he says, steadying Clint.

“I’m okay,” Clint says, a little distracted by the fact that they’re pretty much the same height, which means his mouth is only a couple inches away from the Soldier’s.

The Soldier holds him there, bodies pressed together, frozen in a moment of time that could have lasted an eternity or less than a second. Clint has no idea. All he can see are those perfect eyes, staring back into his own with an intensity that almost scares him.

He starts to lean forward, and then there’s a clicking noise at the door. Instantly, the Soldier spins, putting Clint at his back and reaching for a gun. “Get down,” he says, and Clint ducks behind a nearby potted plant. He’s under no illusions that he’ll be helpful in a fight. He can barely stand up on his own.

The door opens, and a woman enters. She’s holding a bag of groceries in one hand and the hand of a little boy in the other. The kid sees them first. He lets out an ear-piercing scream and the woman gasps. Her groceries hit the ground, tumbling over each other, and she shoves the little boy behind herself. She says something, but Clint doesn’t understand it. Neither does the Soldier, or else he’s not choosing to answer. The woman’s voice gets frantic, higher, and tears start tracking down her face.

Clint comes out from behind the plant, using the wall for support. He shows his hands to the woman, makes clear eye contact, then gently pushes down the Soldier’s gun. “She’s not Hydra,” he says, still looking at the woman. “Look at her. She lives here. We broke into her house.”

The Soldier is hesitant to move, but Clint pushes a little harder. The gun slowly lowers. “I’m sorry,” he says to the woman, keeping his voice calm. “We’ll go.”

He picks up his own weapon from the couch and tucks it into the back of his pants, then takes a careful step forward. His legs wobble, but they hold him. “Sorry,” he says again to the woman. “Really.”

The woman carefully moves out of his way, arm still firmly wrapped around her son. Clint keeps his hands visible the whole time. She’s still crying, but she’s at least stopped shouting. The Soldier reaches out and grabs his own extra gun from the table, then slowly follows Clint out the door.

It slams behind them almost immediately. Clint staggers down the couple of stairs, then leans heavily against a concrete wall. “Well,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “We should go before she calls somebody.”

“Can you walk?”

“Slowly. If you help.”

The Soldier takes Clint’s arm and pulls it over his shoulder, then wraps the metal arm around his waist. It's probably more help than he needs, but Clint's not complaining. “Where?”

Million dollar question. He has no idea. Most of his operations were in the European theater. As such, he has extensive knowledge of the safe house network there. But he doesn’t have anything in Mumbai, doesn’t know of any that Nat had either. Closest he can get is Afghanistan, and that’s more of a supply stash than a safe house.

“We gotta read that dot,” he says. “I need a way to magnify it.”

“How?”

“Microscope, or magnifying glass.” He looks around. “I’d say find a library. Good place to lay low, we can read the dot, it’s easy to keep an eye on people.”

The Soldier nods. “We will find a library.”

They end up outside a coffee shop first, mostly because Clint’s legs decide they don’t want to go any further beyond that point. The Soldier helps him into a chair, then sits next to him. “We need money,” Clint says, looking through the window at the menu. “We’re gonna have to get food at some point.”

“I am still functional,” the Soldier says.

“Well so am I,” Clint says, “but I’m also hungry.”

They look at each other across the table, then the Soldier gets up. “Wait here,” he says, and before Clint can protest, he walks around the corner and disappears.

Clint settles into his chair and surveys the surroundings. It’s well into the morning now. The streets are crowded and there’s a general hustle and bustle that reminds him of home. Cities make him nervous as a spy—too many people, too many eyes that could be watching—but there’s always been a little part of him that loves the diversity and general chaos.

He scans the street casually, wishing he had a newspaper or something to hide behind, like an old-time spy. They’re not that far distance or time-wise from the last Hydra attack, and this is too exposed for him to really be comfortable. He waits on edge, constantly cataloguing and assessing threats. His back is to a wall but all it would take is someone walking by with a gun to take him out. Clint tugs his sleeves down over the cuffs and ducks a little lower into his chair.

The Soldier returns after about fifteen minutes. He slides into the chair across from Clint with a smooth motion. “We have money.”

“Tell me you didn’t mug somebody,” Clint says, eyes widening at the bundle of bills the Soldier briefly flashes at him. “Please.”

“I didn’t mug anybody,” the Soldier says.

Clint waits for more. When nothing else comes, he says, “Are you just saying that because I told you to?”

“No.”

“So where did the money come from?”

“I stole it.”

“You _stole_ it?”

The Soldier raises an eyebrow at him. “You have an objection?”

Morally, he sort of feels like he should. But right now he’s finding it hard to care. “I guess not.”

“Nobody got hurt,” the Soldier says, a little petulant. “I can be subtle.”

Clint smiles. “Okay.” He holds out his hand. “Give me the phone, I’ll see if I can find a library. You keep watch.”

He fiddles with the settings for a few frustrating minutes before he finally figures out how to set the language to English. Then he pulls up a map and does a quick search. “Here. That’s the closest one.”

“That is a long way to walk,” the Solider says, looking at it. “I don’t think I can help you that far without attracting attention.”

“We’ve got money,” Clint says, pushing away thoughts of the Soldier carrying him down the street. “Let’s take a taxi.”

They buy food first, some deep fried bread thing called a _kachori_ that almost makes him cry with how good it is. Then they flag down a taxi. The driver is very friendly, keeping up a steady stream of conversation all the way to the library. Clint listens with half an ear and spends most of the drive making sure no one is following them.

The library is a quiet, cool place, and just stepping inside and out of view makes Clint breathe a little easier. The woman at the front desk helpfully directs them to a back room, where there’s several microscopes and other science equipment available for rent. Clint sticks the dot underneath one and puts his eye to it.

“It’s a business card,” he says. “For Universal Exports. Some guy named R. Sterling.”

“That’s it?” the Soldier asks from his position by the door. “I don’t understand.”

Clint grins. “Seventy years of working and Hydra never let you watch a Bond movie? That’s just cruel.” He motions for the phone. “Admittedly, this wasn’t one of the better ones.”

“I did not have time to watch movies,” the Soldier says, passing it to him. “When I wasn’t on missions, I was frozen.”

“They…” Clint stares at him. “They froze you? Like a TV dinner?”

“Cryosleep, they called it. To keep me stable.” He has a matter-of-fact look on his face, like this is a totally normal thing to say. _Well, it probably is for him._

“Did it?”

“Did it what?”

“Keep you stable.”

The Soldier flashes a dark smile. It’s both slightly terrifying and a little bit arousing. “They thought so.”

Clint takes the phone. “Well. When this is all over, we’re having a James Bond marathon. Even the bad ones. _Especially_ the bad ones. I have a great drinking game we can play.”

He dials one of the numbers on the card, sparing a brief thought for the man he took the phone from. _Poor dude’s gonna have one hell of a bill._

The line clicks. “Richard Sterling’s office,” a voice says.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Sterling,” he says.

“And who should I say is calling?”

“Oh…Felix Leiter.”

There’s a brief humming noise, then some more clicking, and then a voice that he honestly thought he would never hear again. “Mr. Leiter. Pleasure to hear to from you.”

“You too,” Clint says, relief making his legs weak. “We have some things we need to talk about.”

“I would agree with that. Unfortunately, this isn’t the time or the place.”

“Got any suggestions?”

“Where are you now?”

“Heading up to Belarus. I have something I need to take care of.”

There’s a pause, and some muffled talking. Then, “You remember what I asked you to do for me in Kiev?”

Clint digs deep in his memory. “Yes.”

“You remember the dead drop location?”

Clint groans. “Vividly.”

“Make a detour there. There’ll be a package waiting for you.”

“It’ll take a couple days,” Clint says. “We’re pretty far from there.”

There’s a pause, and then…”We?”

“I made a friend,” Clint says. “We were heading that direction anyway. We can make a detour. Give us…five days.”

“You have four.” The line goes dead.

Clint sets the phone down. “Well, that was enlightening.”

The Soldier tilts his head. “Who did you call?”

“Someone I thought was dead.” Clint rubs his eyebrows. He has a headache setting in, and he’s not sure if it’s from electrocuting himself, sheer exhaustion, or any number of things. “Nick Fury.”

“SHIELD’s director?”

“That’s the one.” He drums his fingers on the table. “Any thoughts on how we can get to Kiev in four days?”

“What is in Kiev?”

“Communications, hopefully. Maybe a supply drop.” He taps the phone. “This worked in a pinch, but all Hydra has to do is set up a network script that listens for key words and flags conversations. I’ve seen SHIELD do it before.” He turns the phone over in his hand and pops out the SIM card, then snaps it in half. “We need a secure way to talk to SHIELD directly.”

He pockets the phone. It’s useless as a phone now, but he can still use it with WiFi. Could come in handy. “Last time I was in Kiev, Fury asked me to pick something up for him on a wet work job. Very much off the books. I wasn’t even supposed to tell Nat.”

“What was it?”

“The target’s hard drive. I pulled it from his computer and stashed where Fury told me to.” Clint pulls up his shirt and tugs his pants down slightly, revealing a thin scar along his left hipbone. “And then I got stabbed by some asshole who thought I was the police, because Fury _didn’t_ tell me it was a hot spot for drug users. So that was fun.”

“And you think he’s hidden something there for us?”

“That’s what he said.” Clint stands up. “So. How do we get to Kiev in three days with no money, no supplies, and most of Hydra coming after us?”

“That part is easy,” the Soldier says. He looks at Clint, expression promising excitement and a little amusement. “How do you feel about stealing a plane?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of his cuffs glints in the moonlight. He scowls at it. He’s gotten used to wearing them, and he hates that. He still feels like he’s tethered to Rumlow. Can still feel his hands, still see his smug face behind closed eyes. Clint’s spent most of the past months repressing the fuck out of everything, which he knows will come back to bite him in the butt later. But thinking about it is not currently an option. He’s still on mission. He’s still got a job to do. He can fall apart later, when Natasha is safe. When they’re all safe.

Stealing a plane is easier said than done. There are two airports in Mumbai—the main one, with the domestic and international terminals, and the private one. Stealing a plane from the commercial airport is _beyond_ crazy, to the point where it’s not even worth the attempt. But considering that the private airport is the one they literally busted out of that morning…well, the odds aren’t looking any good there either.

“This will be difficult,” the Soldier says, peering over the wall at the imposing number of police scattered about the runways. It’s dark now—they’d holed up in the library until nighttime so Clint could have time to recover—but he’s still less than thrilled about this whole situation.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Clint pokes his head up too, counting at least fifteen cars. “You really think we can steal an airplane?”

“That’s the fastest way to Kiev,” the Soldier says. “You said we had three days.”

“Four. And we’re gonna have no days if Hydra gets us.”

“Hydra won’t get us.” He points at the police cordon. “None of them are close to the hangar bay. We should go around the back and get in that way.”

“You first,” Clint says, eyeing the drop down. They’re standing on top of a little shack that’s way too close to the wall. The airport is hemmed in on three sides by the residential area, and the other border is the sea. They’d immediately abandoned the idea of coming that way, mostly due to the large amount of guns aimed that direction. Now they’re on the opposite side, closer to the hangar bay where there’s a few airplanes quietly sitting. “How do we even know those are viable? Maybe they’re broken?”

“This is a private airport,” the Soldier says. “I doubt it. They’re probably filled up and ready to go.”

“You realize they’re going to shoot at us once we get it going.”

“It's likely.”

“How reassuring,” Clint sighs. “Well. If we’re gonna be stupid, we might as well go all the way.” He points. “Let’s take the big one.”

“No,” the Soldier says. “The one next to it.”

“With the turboprop?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s a Pilatus PC-12. Range of seventeen-hundred nautical miles.”

Clint looks at him. “How the fuck do you know that?”

A shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Great. Can you fly it?”

“Probably.”

“How far will seventeen-hundred miles get us?”

“Far enough.” The Soldier crouches down, then vaults over the wall. It’s about a ten foot drop to the other side, which he lands easily. “You coming?”

“Show-off,” Clint says. “Catch me.”

He means it as a joke more than anything, but as he jumps over, the Soldier steps forward and catches him. Full-on bridal style, easy as breathing, absolutely nothing to it at all.

“Uh,” Clint says, staring at him, feeling the press of that metal arm against his back. “Thanks?”

The Soldier actually _blushes_. It looks damn good on him. “Sorry. I thought—“

“No, it’s fine. I’m…it’s fine.” More than fine. Their faces are close together again and Clint’s brain is screaming at him to do _something do anything you idiot_.

The awkward staring goes on until The Soldier sets him on the ground and clears his throat. “We should move.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees faintly, feeling slightly off-balance. He refocuses. “Okay. Plane. Stealing.”

They move across the ground in stealth mode, keeping to the wall and staying low until they reach the hangar bay. Despite a long and varied SHIELD career, Clint’s never actually stolen a plane before. He’s weirdly excited about it, jazzed up to the point where the Soldier has to put a hand on his arm and say, “Calm down.”

“I can’t help it,” Clint says. “This is kind of awesome. We’re stealing a whole plane. It’s like a spy movie.”

The Soldier looks mildly amused. “You’re going to get us caught,” he says, pulling Clint’s hand out of his jacket pocket where it’s fidgeting with the Beretta. “Come on. We have to take out the security.”

There are five guards in the hangar, patrolling with nervous eyes and twitchy fingers. Clint pokes his head around the bay door. “Three on the right, two on the left. Which ones do you want?”

“I’ll take the three,” the Soldier says. “Will you be okay with the others?”

“I’m not _that_ hopeless,” Clint scoffs. “I took out four Hydra guys on the plane, I’ll have you know.” His throat tightens as he remembers what came _after_ that, but luckily the Soldier is looking the other direction. Clint shoves the memory to the side. “Anyway. Yes, I’ll be fine.”

“Do it quietly,” he instructs, and then he moves away.

Clint makes a face at him, then sets about taking out the guards. The first one goes down easily. He’s not paying as much attention as he should, and Clint gets him from behind with a chokehold. The second one he just whacks in the head with his gun. “That was easy.”

He hears grunting, and some muffled cursing, and then the Soldier appears on the other side of the plane. There’s blood on him. “Not mine,” he says at Clint’s look. “One of them had a knife.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Not on purpose.” The Soldier reaches up and yanks the prop lock off in a single motion, shattering the lock like it’s a cracker. Clint wonders again just how strong that arm is. “Can you pick the door lock?”

“Sure,” Clint agrees. “Give me your little arm tool things.”

The Soldier tosses them to him and starts dragging the bodies out of sight. Clint pulls the tools out and picks the lock in less than thirty seconds. Not his personal best, but he’s usually not picking locks while on his tiptoes, either. “Got it,” he calls over. “Gonna need your help opening it.”

Between the two of them, they get the door lowered and the stairs unfolded. Clint climbs up and seats himself in the co-pilot chair. “This is _fancy_ ,” he says, looking around. “I must have one.”

The Soldier starts flipping switches. “We have to move quickly once we get the engine going,” he says. “This is not a quiet plane.”

“Are any planes quiet?” Clint joins him in prepping. “I guess the Quinjets are. But not these kinds of planes.” He looks around. “Preflight checks?”

“No time.” The Soldier keeps moving quickly. “We’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words,” Clint mutters, but he straps his harness on anyway and helps finish. “Okay.”

The plane roars to life in the hangar, and the Soldier mutters something in a language he doesn’t understand. “Here we go.”

He taxis the plane to the runway. The road in front of them is blessedly clear, but off to the side, Clint can see multiple police cars scrambling. “Punch it, maybe,” he says.

“We’re going,” the Soldier says. He tosses a headset at Clint. “Talk to the tower. Make sure our flight path is clear.”

Clint pulls the headset on. The Soldier starts pushing on the throttle, and the plane rumbles down the runway, picking up speed every second. In his ears, he can hear the panicked shouting of controllers from the tower, none of which he understands.

“Hey,” he says, adjusting the microphone. “Guys, I don’t speak Hindi. I need either English, French, Italian, or Russian.”

There’s a long pause, and then an accented voice says in English, “Skyhawk-eight-seven-Charlie, you are _not_ cleared for takeoff. Repeat, you are _not_ cleared.”

“I’m very aware of that,” Clint says. “But we’re gonna do it anyway.” The plane lifts up, climbing steadily. The Soldier watches, eyes intently looking ahead. It’s a small plane, quick and easily maneuvered, but Clint’s suddenly very grateful that it’s a clear night. The last thing he wants to do is crash into a sneaky jetliner or something.

The controllers are still chattering at him, yelling unhelpful things like _who do you think you are_ and _stop that plane right now_. Clint rolls his eyes and keys the mic again. “Guys,” he says. “Or girls, I guess. Don’t want to be sexist. Guys and girls. People. We’re taking off. It’s already happened. Can you just tell me if we’re going to hit anything?”

“Your flight path is clear,” another voice says reluctantly. A male one. “Flights in this airspace for one hundred-fifty miles have been diverted since this morning. Who are you?”

“Call me Clyde,” Clint says. “And my good friend Bonnie here is flying the plane.” That gets him a narrow-eyed glare from his companion. Clint just flashes him a smile. “Anyway, thanks for the tip.”

“You know you can’t get away with this. We’re tracking the plane and putting out an alert. You’ll be arrested as soon as you land for fuel.”

“I’d really like to see them try,” Clint says. “Thanks for the info. We’ll be careful.” He cuts the mic and pulls the headset off. “We’re clear for now. They are going to track the plane, though. It’s not like stealing a car. We can’t just abandon it somewhere. We’re gonna have to land eventually.”

“We’re going to Basrah,” the Soldier tells him. He levels the plane out and eases off the throttle. “It’s six hours of flight time. There’s a private runway there. I have used it before. They will not ask questions.”

“How do you know that?”

The Soldier scowls for a second, then says, “I don’t know.”

“Well. That’s slightly alarming, but also kind of helpful.” Clint scratches his chin. “If you get any other epiphanies, let me know, I guess.”

They fly in silence for a bit. At some point Clint wrangles his way out of the seat to use the world’s tiniest lavatory, then digs around in the back of the plane for supplies. He doesn’t find much, but he does manage to dig out a couple water bottles, plus some various junk foods. He grabs everything and hauls it back up to the front. “Here. Drink.”

The Soldier looks at the water bottle, then gently takes it with his metal hand. “Thank you,” he says. There’s a pause, and then he says, “Do you really speak four languages?”

“Five, technically. But it’s hard to do sign language over a radio.” The Soldier snorts at this, and Clint smiles to himself. “But yeah. My French is shit. I’m fluent in Italian. I know enough Russian to get by in a pinch. English is my first, obviously, although it’s questionable before coffee sometimes.” He leans back in the chair. “What about you?”

“Seventeen,” the Soldier says. “I think.”

“Well, aren’t we just a know-it-all.” Clint nudges him. “How come you know seventeen languages, but not _how_ you know them?”

This, apparently, is the wrong question to ask. The Soldier goes very still. Clint winces. “That came out wrong,” he says quickly. “I know they used the brainwashing thing on you. I just don’t get the specifics of it. Like shouldn’t all of it be gone? How do they cherry pick stuff?”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier whispers. His flesh hand is rubbing his forehead. “Please. I don’t know.”

Clint kicks himself for being an insensitive prick. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” He cracks his own water bottle and stares out at the endless expanse of dark sky. “I don’t mean…I’m not trying to hurt you. I swear.”

“I know. I just…” He trails off and looks miserable.

Clint casts around for something else to say, but there really isn’t anything. So he just settles back into his seat and drinks his water and tries to make a plan for what’s next. There’s paper map tucked into the side of his seat, so he unfurls it and skims the countries. Basrah is in the southwest of Iraq, somewhat between Kuwait and Iran. He’s heard of it, vaguely. Never been there.

He traces over to where Kiev is. “What’s the range on this plane again?”

“Seventeen-hundred miles.”

“We’re gonna have to stop again. Kiev is too far.” He calculates distances. “Bucharest might be good. If we can get from here to Basrah to Bucharest, we can ditch the plane there and take a train to Kiev. I’ve done that before.”

The Soldier nods. “Makes sense.” He leans over and studies the map. “The Red Room is there.” He points. “In the Maryina Horka Forest.”

Clint looks at it. “I always thought the Red Room was more of a concept. I didn’t know it had a specific headquarters. Nat hinted at it, but she doesn’t like to talk about her past.” He feels the familiar swell of worry at her name. _Hang on, Nat. I’m coming._

“They have an academy there. That is where they train the girls. If the Red Room truly has your friend, they will likely bring her back there for correction.”

“Well, that sounds wonderfully ominous.” Clint folds up the map again. “Okay. Basrah to Bucharest to Kiev.” He stretches, popping his back with a horrifying cracking sound. “Sounds like a great time.”

“We can do it,” the Soldier says.

Clint notes the dark circles under his eyes. “You should sleep,” he says. “While we can. I can take over for a little bit. I’ll wake you before we land.”

“I am still functional,” the Soldier says, although he looks utterly exhausted. “I can fly.”

Clint shakes his head. “Dude. I know for a fact you haven’t slept in almost two days. You might be a cyborg, but you still gotta rest.”

The Soldier shifts in his seat. “I…” he starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like _sleeping?_ Who doesn’t like sleeping?”

“I see things.”

“Dreams? Nightmares?”

“No. Not dreams.” He looks haunted. “Memories, I think. They don’t make sense. And they hurt.”

Clint doesn’t really know what to say to that. “Can I…is there anything I can do to help?”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’m…unstable.”

“Hey,” Clint says, sitting up straighter. “Don’t say that. You’re strong as hell. Look at the shit you’ve survived. Anyone else would be a gibbering mess, myself included.”

“That is what _they_ call it. When this happens. The memories. Then they put me in the Chair to fix the broken parts.”

“To wipe them out, you mean,” Clint says, feeling a surge of anger. “I’m gonna stick a thousand grenades on that fucking thing and blow it to pieces. You’re a _person_ and they treated your brain like it’s a goddamn playground. Unstable is just a bullshit excuse for them not knowing the full effects of what they’re doing.”

The Soldier looks surprised at his sudden outburst. Clint takes a deep breath and tries to rein himself back in. His fingers are drumming on his knee; it takes a conscious effort to stop them. “Regardless,” he says once he has himself under control. “You still need to sleep. You’re not going to do either of us any good if you drive yourself to collapsing.”

“I know,” the Soldier says. He slumps a little, and pulls his hands off the controls.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Clint says. “If you have a nightmare I can wake you.”

“…Okay.”

Despite his trepidation, the Soldier falls asleep almost immediately. Clint watches his face smooth out, tenseness slowly giving way to peace. It takes _years_ off his face as the stress fades.

_You don’t deserve this,_ Clint thinks as he dims the lights and checks their heading. _You’re a good guy._

He’s not sure how the Soldier got wrapped up in all this, but the cryosleep does add an interesting wrinkle to it. Clint had assumed that Winter Soldier was a mantle, passed down from assassin to assassin. Like a family name or something. But if they’ve been freezing him between missions, and wiping his memories, then this guy is probably the original one. Which makes the whole thing even _worse_ , in Clint’s opinion, because that fifty years is a long time to be under Hydra’s thumb. And it was probably even longer than that.

He looks over at the Soldier. Studies the curve of his face, and the silver arm, and the tangled mess of hair. Imagines him screaming while faceless scientists strap him into a chair and scrub his memories away. Something catches in his throat at the thought, and he shakes his head. “You’re not going back to them,” he promises the sleeping man. “I’ll burn the whole goddamn world down first.”

Time passes slowly. Clint monitors the plane and tries to make a plan for when they land. Planes, unlike cars, are easy to track. They can’t just ditch it on the side of the road somewhere. They have to land at an airport. And even an off-the-radar one is bound to have some difficulties. Hydra might not be able to track _him_ anymore, but he doubts they’re stupid enough to miss a whole fucking plane being stolen right after Clint and the Soldier went AWOL. All they have to do is plan out some potential landing spots and send teams to wait, and then they’ll catch them and—

Clint shakes the thought off. “Fly the plane, buddy,” he mutters. “Can’t do anything about it right now.”

One of his cuffs glints in the moonlight. He scowls at it. He’s gotten used to wearing them, and he _hates_ that. He still feels like he’s tethered to Rumlow. Can still feel his hands, still see his smug face behind closed eyes. Clint’s spent most of the past months repressing the fuck out of everything, which he _knows_ will come back to bite him in the butt later. But thinking about it is not currently an option. He’s still on mission. He’s still got a job to do. He can fall apart later, when Natasha is safe. When they’re all safe.

Except thinking that doesn’t stop his hands from shaking, or the sensation of phantom touches along his skin, or the whispered voices he can hear in his ear. It doesn’t stop him from flinching at every touch. He still feels raw as hell from the plane, and not just physically. Rumlow had “cleaned him up” but Clint really just wants to take a hot shower and scrub the memory of their hands away. Wants to forget how they broke him down, split him open and made him _beg_ —

He hisses and rubs his eyes hard enough to see stars. “Stop it,” he mutters, leaning forward. “Stop it, stop it, _stop_ it.”

Next to him, there’s a short noise. Cut off, like it wasn’t supposed to happen. Clint raises his head and glances over at the Soldier, who is still sleeping but is pretty clearly caught up in some kind of nightmare. His face is twisted up in pain, and his metal hand is clenched hard around the seat.

“Hey,” Clint says, reaching over. He’s not sure what best way to wake up a super assassin is, so he settles for a nudge on the shoulder and a calm voice. “Captain Harlock. Wake up.”

The Soldier snaps awake with a startled gasp. His hand—the flesh one, thank god—wraps around Clint’s hand and bends it backwards. Clint lets him do it, adjusting so the angle isn’t quite as painful. “Easy,” he says, eyes watering. “Just me.”

There’s an alarmed look in those blue eyes, and the Soldier lets go immediately. He stares at his hand, like he doesn’t know who it belongs to. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t—“

“It’s cool,” Clint assures him, massaging his wrist. “Seriously. I get nightmares too, I know what it’s like.”

“I _hurt_ you,” the Soldier says.

“I’ll get over it. It wasn’t personal.” Clint smiles at him, still trying to shake off his own little freak out. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

The Soldier clenches his fists and takes a few deep breaths. “Unstable,” he mutters to himself. “I need—I need recalibration.”

“No you _don’t_ ,” Clint says forcefully. “Fuck that. You had a nightmare, that’s all. It’s okay. I’m fine.” He waves his hand in the Soldier’s face. “See? Hand completely functional. We good?”

The Soldier smacks it away. “Stop that.”

“Tell me we’re good.”

There’s a beat of silence and then, reluctantly, “We’re good.”

“Awesome.” Clint makes a few adjustments to their heading. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” The Soldier looks around. “How far—?”

“About forty minutes, I think. I was about to wake you anyway” He taps his fingers on the dash. “Is there a tower for us to contact, or are we just kind of landing and hoping for the best?”

“The second one.”

Clint nods. He can work with that.

The Soldier finally relaxes a little into his chair. “What did you call me?”

“Huh?”

“When you woke me up. You called me…what?”

“Oh.” Clint shrugs. “Captain Harlock. I don’t know your name, and I feel like it’s weird to call you Soldier all the time. So I’m pulling a Tony and just doing nicknames.” He gestures. “Since you’ve got this whole tall, dark and handsome thing going on, I’m just working with that.”

The Soldier looks less than impressed with this. “Captain _Harlock_?”

“ _Space Pirate_ Captain Harlock,” Clint corrects. “I’ve only seen it once, but I think you fit the bill.”

“No.”

“C’mon, space pirates are cool. Plus, he’s immortal. It’s totally you.”

“Do _not_ call me that.”

“Do you know your real name?”

“I don’t have a name.”

Clint winces at the implications of that, but the Soldier’s expression tells him not to push the topic any further. “Well,” he says lightly. “Now you do.”

“I am _not_ answering to that.” There’s exasperation in his voice, and that hint of Brooklyn again.

“That’s fine. I’ve got more. We’ll find one you like.”

“ _Great_ ,” the Soldier says. “Can’t wait to hear them.”

Clint grins. He’s liking these little glimmers of personality. The Soldier can be weirdly robotic sometimes, but there’s definitely some glimpses of a regular guy underneath, and Clint is _loving_ that guy. He suddenly wonders what the Soldier would look like drunk, and vows to do it as soon as possible. It’s probably spectacular.

“I have a question,” he says, studying that fantastic jawline. He wants to stare at it forever, but also he really wants an answer to this.

“What is it?”

“Why are you helping me?”

The Soldier furrows his eyebrows together and it’s kind of adorable. “What?”

“All this,” Clint says, waving his hand around. “You didn’t really need me, you know? You could have left. I had a freaking homing signal around my wrists, I wouldn’t have blamed you.” He swallows down his feelings about that. “But you stuck around, and saved my life, and now you’re gonna help me save Nat. I just…I guess I’m just curious.”

Those blue eyes focus on his face with a singular intensity. Clint’s mouth suddenly feels dry, and his heart ratchets up a notch.

“I like how you fight,” the Soldier finally says.

“You…what?”

“I like how you fight,” the Soldier repeats. His flesh hand curls into a fist. “I think I used to fight too. They would tell me that when they used me. They said I was easy now. That the fight had been burned out of me.”

Clint doesn’t want to ask, but he does anyway. “Used you?”

The Soldier doesn’t answer, but his eyes get a distant look that’s all too familiar. “But you still fight,” he says, “and you talk, and you _try_. I thought that maybe if I was around you I would remember what it was like. Maybe I could…stop them. From burning it out again.”

His voice is quiet, the words hiding behind an incredible sadness. Clint feels an urge to reach out and take his hand.

So he does.

The Soldier’s breath catches almost imperceptibly. He sits perfectly still, warm hand flat underneath Clint’s touch. Then after a long moment, his fingers slowly curl and wind into Clint’s.

Clint lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I don’t really think I’m worth all of the trouble,” he says quietly. “But I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“I think you’re worth it,” the Soldier says, and there’s a smile on his face. It’s small, but genuine, and Clint suddenly thinks he’d give anything to keep it there forever.

He squeezes the Soldier’s hand and doesn’t bother to hide his own stupid grin. “Good to know.”

A beeping noise startles them both apart. Clint looks down at the instrument panel. “Hey,” he says. “We got something.”

The Soldier quickly picks up a headset and slips it on. Clint puts his on too, although it’s really pointless because he’s pretty sure they’re speaking Arabic, and he can’t understand any of it. But then the Soldier starts talking back, words quiet and sharp, and after a few minutes he pulls off the headset. “That was the airfield,” he says to Clint. “We’re on their approach pattern.”

Clint feels nervousness swell up in him. “Should we expect a welcome party?”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “But be ready just in case.” He touches his leg holster, as if reassuring himself the gun is still there.

The runway lights up as they start their descent. The Soldier navigates them down easily, landing with barely a bump. Someone with lights waves them off to the side, and they taxi the plane over and off the runway, parking not too far from another plane. It looks older, although vaguely familiar. The Soldier examines it with interest through the window. “That’s a Learjet 60,” he says.

Clint mentally dusts off his plane knowledge, intrigue overshadowing the nervousness for a moment. “Really? You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Cool,” he breathes, checking out the props. “I haven’t seen one in years.” Not since he’d dragged Nat to a plane show one time. Somewhere in his apartment is a picture of the two of them in the pilot and co-pilot’s seat of one of those, with Clint looking significantly happier than her about it.

“I’ve flown one,” the Soldier says, and he’s got that pained look on his face again. “I think.”

“Really?” Clint eyes the plane. “Maybe we should swap on our way out of here. They’re probably looking for this one.”

“I doubt it’s operational,” he says, powering down their plane.

A beat up truck pulls up as they shut the engines off. Clint drags his attention away from the Learjet. “I don’t know about this,” he says quietly. “How do we know they’re not Hydra?”

“We don’t,” the Soldier says grimly. “But we need fuel. And this is our only option.”

Clint sighs. “I’m really sick of having no options,” he says, but he follows the Soldier out and down to the tarmac anyway.

Five people get out of the truck as they climb down the stairs. They’re all dressed in dark tactical clothes and masks, and carrying an alarming number of weapons. Clint clenches his hand around the Beretta and feels very underdressed for the occasion.

“ _Soldat_ ,” one of the people says. A woman, Clint thinks, judging by the long eyelashes and hint of curves. She steps forward and holds out a hand. In Russian, she says, “Good to see you again.”

The Soldier takes her hand. “You as well,” he says, suddenly sounding perfectly at ease. “This is Clint.”

“I thought you worked alone,” she says, eyeing Clint, but she offers him a hand as well. “I am Kadija.”

“He’s with me,” the Soldier says firmly. “We need fuel. And supplies.”

She’s still looking at Clint, with an expression that he knows all too well. Almost unconsciously, he steps closer to the Soldier. She smirks and says something that he doesn’t catch, then jerks her head towards the truck. “Come.”

“Who are these people?” Clint whispers to him.

“I don’t remember,” the Soldier whispers back.

“Fan- _fucking_ -tastic.” Clint sighs, and he follows the Soldier into the truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Captain Harlock: Space Pirate is in fact a real character/movie](https://fineartamerica.com/featured/space-pirate-captain-harlock-dorothy-binder.html). I haven't actually seen the whole thing, but he's definitely got a Winter Soldier vibe going on. 
> 
> Also, all weird plane facts in this chapter are true, to the best of my knowledge. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint casually looks around, something prickling at the edge of his mind. His time with Rumlow has trained him to be even more hyper-aware of people’s movements, and their expressions, and he doesn’t care for the way Kadija is eyeing him. He knows he’s a hell of a sight, between the black eye and the split lip and the fading ligature marks still visible around his throat, but there’s no sympathy in her gaze. It’s something else. He really doesn’t care for the way the rest of them are looking at the Solider, either. Or the way their fingers are firmly set on the triggers.

An hour later, they’re having one of the most awkward meals that Clint can ever remember eating. They’re in a small building about a half a mile from the airstrip, where the five people in the truck apparently live part-time as ‘airport security.’ The building itself is basically a small collection of rooms—one for security and communications, a general common area, a barracks. Clint’s stayed in worse places, all things considered, but this is definitely up there on the list.

But they give him hot food, so he’s not complaining. He doesn’t even ask what it is, just tears into it like a starving man while they all stare silently. Next to him, the Soldier is doing the same. Kadija is watching them both with an amused look in her eyes.

“That plane out there,” Clint says, his Russian a little stumbling but still serviceable. “The Learjet. Does that fly?”

“Of course,” she says, sounding proud. “It’s always fueled and ready. I flew it yesterday.”

“It’s yours?”

“It belongs to our employer. I am the pilot.”

“It’s really cool,” Clint says. “All original parts, or…?”

“Refurbished, but as close to original as possible. Communications and other systems have been updated for safety, but everything else is as it was.”

“What’s it doing here?” Kadija scowls at him, and he hurries to put her at ease. “It’s just that there's not a lot of them, right? They only built, like, three-hundred of them.” Three hundred and eighteen, to be exact. He tries for abject curiosity in his voice, and she relaxes slightly. “I just wasn’t expecting to see one on a no-name airstrip in Iraq.”

“It was being stored in Moscow,” she says, eyes on the Soldier. “But there was an incident there last year, and our employer eventually decided to move it here.”

Clint starts to ask another question when the Soldier suddenly pushes his plate away and gets up. “Thank you,” he says to the woman. “But we need to go.”

“What’s the rush?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. “We can’t refuel you for another hour yet. Sit.” She kicks his chair back out at him, and the Soldier reluctantly lowers himself back down. He glances over at Clint, something unreadable in his gaze.

Clint casually looks around, something prickling at the edge of his mind. His time with Rumlow has trained him to be even more hyperaware of people’s movements, and their expressions, and he doesn’t care for the way Kadija is eyeing him. He knows he’s a hell of a sight, between the black eye and the split lip and the fading ligature marks still visible around his throat, but there’s no sympathy in her gaze. It’s something else. He really doesn’t care for the way the rest of them are looking at the Solider, either. Or the way their fingers are firmly set on the triggers.

“Why an hour?” he asks. “I mean. It doesn’t take that long, right?”

“No,” Kadija says. “But our fuel truck is late.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Lazy bastards.”

She’s lying. Clint can see it in her face. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

The Soldier apparently notices it too, because under the table, his fist clenches. Clint sees it out of the corner of his eye. “Are they always late?”

“Yes,” she says.

He suspects it’s not really a fuel truck at all that’s coming. Or if it is, it’s going to have friends on it. Hydra friends. He suddenly feels very stupid—of _course_ this airfield would have been on alert, particularly if the Soldier had used it for a mission in the past. They might not be the types to ask questions, but in Clint’s experience, the ones who don’t ask questions are also the ones who are easily bribed. He’s willing to bet just about anything that they’re just waiting for Hydra to show up.

_Not that we really had choice,_ he thinks, trying to control the panic threatening to make an appearance. They couldn’t have landed at a commercial airstrip. It was either this or crash the plane.

“You got a bathroom in this place?” he asks abruptly.

Kadija inclines her head. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

Clint gets up. He doesn’t really need the bathroom, but he’s testing his hunch. Sure enough, one of the other four breaks off to follow him.

The bathroom is ominously lit by a flickering florescent light. There’s a couple urinals and one stall opposite a single off-white sink. Clint heads for the stall, raising an eyebrow as the guy goes with him. “I can do this part myself, thanks.”

The guy spits tobacco juice in a urinal, which is just disgusting. “Supposed to follow you,” he says in thick English.

Clint sighs. “Well, unless you think I’m gonna flush myself down the toilet, I’m not exactly going to disappear in there. A little privacy, if you don’t mind?”

Another spit, but the guy nods, and Clint goes into the stall. He does his business, mind whirling through plans. He didn’t go through nearly _dying_ just to sit on his ass and hand himself back over to Hydra. No fucking way. He’s gotta take this guy out, then get back to the Soldier.

There’s a kick at the door. “Hurry up.”

Clint bites his tongue, trying to remember the last time he was able to piss without somebody yelling at him. Months, probably. Rumlow hated leaving him alone for more than five minutes at a time, even in the bathroom where there was a minimal amount of trouble to get into. Or if he _did_ leave him alone, it was in the penthouse where cameras covered everything and he could watch anyway. Clint had found most of them the first day, but he’d let Rumlow think otherwise. Just easier that way.

He pushes open the stall door and looks over at the guy. “Tell me,” he says, moving to wash his hands. “How much is Hydra paying you for us?”

The guy looks confused. “Hydra?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “You know. Evil organization of assholes? Creepy looking octopus symbol? Generally planning world domination and mayhem?” The guy still looks confused. “C’mon, man. I know we’re not waiting for a fuel truck. You called them when we landed. I’m not stupid.”

“We did not call Hydra,” the man says. “I do not know what a Hydra is.”

“Well if you didn’t call Hydra, why—“ He stops, suddenly hearing the sounds of a scuffle outside.

The man levels his gun at Clint. “Don’t move,” he snarls.

Clint raises his hands. “Not moving,” he says, eyes on the gun.

There’s another noise outside, and a very loud _thud_. The guy glances over and in that instant Clint crosses the bathroom floor and disarms him. The ensuing fight is surprisingly easy. Clint’s wary of it for a moment before remembering that he’s been practicing hand-to-hand with some of the top agents at Hydra.

Well, practicing is probably the wrong word for it. Fighting for his life, more like.

He knocks the guy out by shoving him into the sink with more force than necessary, and quickly frisks him for any other weapons. He’s just tucking a folding knife into his own pocket when the door opens and the Soldier steps in.

“We should go,” he says casually, like Clint frisking unconscious people is something that happens every day.

Clint gets up. “Did they call Hydra?”

“Possibly,” he says. “But I don’t think so. The incident in Moscow she mentioned? That was me.”

Clint sighs and follows him back out the door. “What did you do?”

“I blew up the airfield.”

“Just for fun, or…?”

“It was a mission. I don’t remember why.”

The room they were in before is littered with bodies now. “Did you kill these guys?”

“No.” The Soldier sounds slightly offended. “I don’t kill everybody I meet.”

“That’s not how I meant it.” He ruffles a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

The Soldier just shakes his head and nudges one of the bodies over with his foot. Kadija, her face bloody, glares up at him with a furious expression. She’s snarling a stream of Arabic at him. None of it sounds very complimentary.

“What’s she saying?” Clint asks, picking up another handgun to go with his Beretta.

“Death threats, mostly.” The Soldier tilts his head, listening intently. “And something very rude about my mother.”

Clint snickers. “Classy.”

She spits at him. It lands on his pants. “You know who this man is?” she demands in Russian.

“Him?” Clint points at the Soldier. “I mean, we’re not best friends or anything yet, but I think he’s a decent guy. He’s got pretty eyes, anyway.”

“He’s a murderer,” she growls. “He shot my entire crew. They weren’t even _armed,_ and he gunned them down like they were nothing!”

There is rage in her voice, and pain, and Clint understands both of these things. He looks up and sees the Soldier’s eyes fixed on him. “That true?”

“It was a mission,” the Soldier says quietly. His eyes are haunted, and he tightens his grip on the gun, like he thinks Clint’s suddenly going to turn on him or something. “I remember them,” he says to Kadija. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Look,” Clint says “I know what it’s like to lose people, okay? I swear, I do. And if we had the time, I’d be willing to let you go a round or two with him. But I need him more than you need a revenge story.” He reaches down and picks up her discarded pistol. “And it wasn’t him, anyway. He was being controlled by Hydra. You wanna blame someone? Blame them. They’re the ones who brainwashed him.”

“Lies,” she says fiercely. “I saw him do it, I know—!”

“He didn’t have a _choice_ ,” Clint emphasizes. “They’re good at that, taking away choices. I promise you, they’re the ones you want to blame.” He turns to the Soldier. “We gotta go. Backup is better than Hydra, but I’d rather not stick around for either.”

“Your plane is not fueled,” Kadija says, her eyes flashing in triumphant anger. “How far do you think you can make it? There is nowhere you can run to that we will not—"

“That’s okay,” Clint says, looking up at the Soldier. “You’ve got another plane we can borrow.” 

The Soldier tilts his head. “The Learjet?” He looks somewhat excited about this, and Clint can't help but feel the same. He can't wait to tell Nat. He bet she's never stolen two planes in a single day.

“You can’t!” Kadija shouts.

“Who's gonna stop us?” Clint asks, looking up to the Soldier. “Ready?”

They leave Kadija on the ground. Clint hot-wires the truck with practiced ease and they drive it back out to the planes. There’s no anti-theft devices on this one, so they just climb inside and sit at the controls. It takes them a few minutes, but between the two of them they manage to figure it out, and get the engines running.

“We need to be careful when landing,” the Soldier says. “The brakes on this class are under-geared. If we don’t hit just right, we risk burning them out.”

“Dude,” Clint says, looking at him. “You know a lot of weirdly specific plane facts, and one day I’m going to find out why.”

They taxi down the strip and get it in the air, pointing it towards Bucharest. Clint doesn’t relax until they hit cruising speed and altitude. “Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “That was fun.”

The Soldier gives him a sideways look. “You have an interesting definition of fun.”

“Eh.” He checks out the fuel tanks. Should be more than enough to get them to Bucharest. This plane isn't as nice as other one, but it's got a longer range. “I take it where I can get it.”

They sit in silence for awhile. Clint skims through the manual with one hand and a map with the other, already preoccupied with trying to figure out where the hell and how the hell they’re gonna put this plane down.

“So,” the Soldier says. “You think I have pretty eyes?”

“Definitely,” Clint says, focused on the map. “Prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.” He points at a place. “Do you think we could land around here?”

The Soldier leans over. “It won’t be a good one. The plane will likely be ruined.”

“Doesn’t matter. We were gonna take a train anyway after this. So unless you know some other secret airstrips…” He folds up the map. “I think ditching it in a field’s gonna be our only option.”

“We can do that.” There’s a pause, and then, “Prettiest you’ve ever seen?”

There’s a hint of surprised happiness to his voice, and Clint looks up at him. “Definitely,” he says with a smile. There’s a _moment_ between them again, where Clint both does and doesn’t think about what it would be like to kiss him.

Then they encounter the beginnings of a nasty storm, and the plane starts rattling around, and they forgo the moment in favor of keeping the plane steady and themselves in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Here is some lovely softness if [boys dressing up in lingerie is your thing](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/59361280?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_313025290)
> 
> All weird plane facts are still true.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hydra is very good at what they do,” the Soldier says. “We shouldn’t underestimate them.”
> 
> “I’m not underestimating them.” Clint raises his arm, displaying one of the silver cuffs. “Trust me, I’m highly aware of what they’re capable of. I’ve spent the last couple months being fucked by Hydra, in every sense of the word.” He shudders off a memory and takes a deep breath. “But I still think we’re better. And I think they’re gonna be the ones to underestimate us.”

“Okay,” Clint says, wiping at his face. “You were right. That was not good.”

“I told you,” the Soldier says, wincing in pain.

They’re in a field, in what’s left of the Learjet. Clint had officially picked it for a landing when they were an hour out, and the Soldier had reluctantly agreed to try putting down there.

What they did _not_ know was that there had been a considerable amount of rain the the day before, and consequently the field was soft and muddy. And so what followed was a cartoon-style, bouncy hell of a landing that tore off the landing gear, shredded the bottom of the plane, put them in a tailspin, and very nearly ran them out of the field and into a grove of trees. It had taken _everything_ between the two of them to keep the plane in check, and five minutes later, Clint is still questioning if he’s alive or not. Between the landing and the storm they’d run into at the beginning, he’s honestly not really sure.

He pats his body, ensuring that all his limbs are still attached. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.” The Soldier undoes his harness and looks over at Clint. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah?” Clint touches his head and winces. “Ah, shit. That’s where Rumlow hit me before. I whacked it on the window. Must have reopened it.”

“Let’s get out of here,” the Soldier says. “I can take a look at it out there.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Clint pulls at his own harness. “Argh. It’s stuck, hang on—”

The metal arm reaches over and yanks it off like tissue paper, shredding the belt into pieces. Clint blinks, his hands still in midair. He suddenly has an image of his _clothes_ being ripped off like that, and flushes a little. “Uh. Thanks.”

“You are welcome.” The Soldier turns and inspects the cabin behind them. “I think the stairs are broken.”

“I think _everything_ is broken.” Clint points at the window. “Punch us out, will you? We’ll make our own exit.”

The Soldier obligingly smashes the window and pokes his head out. “The wing is on fire,” he informs Clint.

“Figures.” Clint reaches behind his chair and grabs a couple water bottles, then the first-aid kit. He stuffs them into a small pack and hands them up the the Soldier, who tosses it out the window. “Let’s get away from here before the engine blows or something.”

They struggle their way through the broken glass and stand on the nose of the plane, inspecting the damage. Clint lets out a low whistle at the sheer amount of destruction in the field. “Damn. I don’t know if I should be horrified or impressed.”

“Both, probably,” the Soldier says. He slides down and drops to the ground, then looks up at Clint with a hint of a smile. “Do you need me to catch you?”

Clint laughs. “I think I can manage this one,” he says, tossing down the bag. He sits down and scoots to the edge, then drops down. The Soldier steadies him as he lands. “Thanks, though.”

He shoulders the pack and they move away from the wreckage, hiking to the edge of the clearing. The Soldier reaches into his pocket and pulls out the map. “There’s a road to the south,” he says after examining it. “About a kilometer.”

“Sounds good,” Clint says. “I’m done with planes for a bit.”

“You’re a good pilot,” the Soldier says, glancing back at the wreckage. “I don’t think I could have put that down alone.”

“I mostly provided the screaming,” Clint says. “You’re the one who did the work.”

“No, you helped.” There’s an amused sideways look, and then he adds, “The screaming was entertaining. Maybe a little dramatic.”

Clint takes a bow, which makes him a bit dizzy. _Oh yeah. Head wound._ “It’s my goal in life to make things dramatic.” He touches the side of his head and winces. “Hand me that kit, will you? I gotta put a band-aid on this or something before we get too far.”

“Let me look at it.”

“Just give me some gauze. We don’t really have time to play doctor. There’s no way that crash went unnoticed.”

The Soldier grabs Clint’s arm and pulls him over to a fallen tree. “Sit.”

Clint yanks his arm away. “Hey, _don’t_ —!” The Soldier lets go immediately, and he takes a deep breath. “Sorry,” he says, trying to keep calm. “Please don’t do that.”

Those blue eyes look at him with confusion, and a little bit of hurt, and Clint shakes his head. “Rumlow dragged me around like that,” he says. “I don’t—I don’t like it.”

He hates it, actually. Of all the ways to make him feel powerless, that was Rumlow’s favorite. Why let Clint walk somewhere when he could drag him instead?

The Soldier immediately looks wide-eyed, and he holds his hands up. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t…I didn’t know.”

Clint shakes his head, and winces when that makes him dizzy too. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have. Just…don’t do it again, please.”

The Soldier takes a deep breath and nods. “I won’t,” he says. “I’m sorry, Clint. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t.” Clint stumbles over to the tree and sits down. “Let’s do this quick, okay? Last thing we need is for Romanian Search and Rescue or whatever to find us.”

“Yes.” He digs through the first-aid kit. It’s paltry, but he manages to come up with some alcohol wipes and a length of gauze. “Hold still.”

Clint hisses in pain as the wipe scrubs over the cut, but he keeps himself still. “How bad is it?”

“Not terrible,” the Soldier says, squinting in the dim light. The sun is coming up, but the forest is still pretty dark. “You are still functional.”

“Of course I’m still functional.” Clint winces. “Is it like a _oh-god-this-needs-stitches_ bad or is it a _suck-it-up-buttercup_ bad?”

“The second one. It’s mostly just bloody.” He presses the gauze to Clint’s head, then wraps it around and ties it off with practiced ease. “There. Not pretty, but it’s—”

“Functional,” Clint finishes. “I got it.” He gets up and gently probes the bandage. “Thank you, Florence.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes. “No.”

“No? You make a pretty good nurse.”

“ _No_.”

“Ah, you’re no fun.” Clint tucks the supplies back into the bag. “Alright. Let’s scram.”

They pick their way through the wet forest, jumping over fallen trees and mud puddles until they come to a packed gravel road. Clint points south, and the Soldier nods.

It’s very pretty here, Clint thinks as they walk. He’s always preferred the city, but he appreciates nature for what it is. There’s a sort of denseness to the air here, accompanied with a wet smell of dirt and grass that he kind of likes. _Maybe once everything is over, we all could get together and build a house out here or something. Grow a little garden._ He tries to picture Tony as a farmer in suspenders and overalls, and snorts.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just being ridiculous.” He shrugs. “Thinking about after.”

“After?”

“After this. Once we win.”

“ _If_ we win.”

“Hey now. We can win.” Clint looks at him. “Look at what we’ve done already, just you and me. As soon as we get the rest of my friends back? We’re gonna be unstoppable.”

“Hydra is very good at what they do,” the Soldier says. “We shouldn’t underestimate them.”

“I’m not underestimating them.” Clint raises his arm, displaying one of the silver cuffs. “Trust me, I’m _highly_ aware of what they’re capable of. I’ve spent the last couple months being fucked by Hydra, in every sense of the word.” He shudders off a memory and takes a deep breath. “But I still think we’re better. And I think they’re gonna be the ones to underestimate us.”

The Soldier starts to respond, but then he stops, head tilted to the side. “Car,” he says.

“What?”

“Car.” He points down the road behind them. Sure enough, there’s a car coming their way.

“Are we hiding, or are we hitchhiking?”

“Hitchhiking is faster,” the Soldier says. “I will get their attention.”

“You?” Clint scoffs. “You’re scary as shit, dude. No one’s gonna stop for you. Let me try.”

“You’re bleeding,” the Soldier points out, reaching into his pocket. He tugs a glove over his metal hand. “And you still have a black eye, and your throat—”

Clint shrugs and zips his coat up a little more. _Do_ not _think about that._ “Extra points for being pitiful? Move. I’ll get them.”

“I really don’t think—“

The car _whooshes_ past them in a flash of lights. Clint makes a half-hearted wave, but they don’t slow down, and it disappears around a bend in the road.

“Told you so,” the Soldier says.

“Oh, don’t be smug. They wouldn’t have stopped anyway. Look how fast they were going.”

But then they’re both proven wrong, as the car reappears, driving past them the other way before pulling a U-turn and coming to a stop beside them. The window rolls down, and a blond woman pokes her head out. “ _Esti pierdut_?”

“How’s your Romanian?” Clint asks.

The Soldier shrugs. “Let’s find out.” He jogs over to the car. The woman looks afraid, and Clint swallows down his _I-told-you-so_. After a short conversation, the Soldier turns back to Clint. “She’ll give us a ride to Voluntari,” he says. “It’s close to Bucharest.”

“Sweet.” Clint opens the back door and slides in. “Tell her thank you.”

It’s a cute car, exactly the kind he would expect a middle-aged woman to have. Small, and compact, and with clear evidence of kids in the backseat. He rescues a stuffed cat before the Soldier can sit on it, and hands it to the woman. “Thank you,” she says in English. It’s accented, but clear. “My daughter’s.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Clint says, smiling at her.

She gestures to his head. “Are you alright?”

“This?” He touches the bandage. “It’s fine. We were out hiking, I got clipped by a tree branch. No big deal. I’m Clint, by the way.”

“I’m Elena,” she says.

There’s a moment of awkward silence, where they both look at the Soldier. Then with an uncomfortable and mildly annoyed look on his face, he sighs and says, “I’m…Harlock.”

Clint bites his cheek to keep from laughing and turns away. “We really appreciate the ride,” he says to her.

She starts the car and pulls onto the road. “Why are you walking? Did your car break down?”

“We were camping,” Clint says. “Have been for the past week.”

Elena frowns. “In the storm?”

“We’re adventurous,” Clint says nonchalantly. “And maybe a little stupid.” He shrugs. “But then we lost our gear to a mudslide, so we figured it was time to give up. Started walking south this morning until we found a road. Figured someone would happen along at some point.”

She nods. “Sorry to hear of your troubles.”

Clint waves a hand. “No worries. It’s been a fun time.” He nudges the Soldier, who looks less than thrilled about the story Clint is spinning. “Secluded forests. Lots of alone time.”

“Ah, you are together? How long?”

“Yeah.” Clint grins, thoroughly enjoying the narrow-eyed glare this gets him. “Not long. But it’s been a wild ride so far.”

“You are Americans, correct?”

“Sure are. We’re vacationing at the moment. Our hotel is downtown Bucharest. But I’ve heard a lot about the forests here, so I convinced him to come out with me.” He nudges the Soldier again. “Right, Harlock?”

Another sideways look, and then a reluctant, “Yes.”

Clint turns back to Elena. “So what brings you way out this way?”

“Oh, I was visiting my grandmother.” She launches into a story and Clint settles back into his seat. He’s hitchhiked plenty of times—hell, once he made his way from coast to coast on nothing more than borrowed rides. He knows how the game is played. Be charming, be polite. Offer a few tidbits about yourself, put the other person at ease that you’re not a serial killer. Maybe mention a significant other. Then ask the driver a question, and sit back. People love to talk about themselves. Get them going, and you don’t have to say much at all.

Half an hour or so into the drive, a bunch of police cars and sirens blare past them in the opposite direction. Elena dutifully pulls over to let them pass. “I wonder what that’s about,” she says, watching them.

“Life’s got many mysteries,” Clint says innocently. He leans forward. “Elena, is there any chance I could borrow your phone? I need to call a friend.”

“Internationally, or…?”

“Don’t worry. It won’t cost you anything.” He shrugs. “And if it does, I’ll pay you back.”

She reluctantly hands a phone to him. “Make it short, if you can.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Stark?” The Soldier murmurs to him.

“Yeah.” Clint dials JARVIS again. It’s risky, he knows, but since he broke the SIM card in the other one, he has to take the chance. Hopefully JARVIS will be able to warn him if the call is being traced. “We gotta get a couple burners in Bucharest before we go.”

He puts the phone to his ear and listens to the ringing. _Come on. Pick up._

There’s a distinct click, and then a polite, “How may I help you?”

“JARVIS,” Clint says, turning away from Elena and pitching his voice lower. “It’s me.”

“Agent Barton. It is good to hear from you.” There’s a pause, and then, “I will alert Sir for you.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

A few moments later, Tony comes on. He sounds exhausted, but there’s a hint of relief in his voice. “Tweety Bird. How are things?”

“We’re good. Are you hiding in the shower again?”

“No, I’m confined to quarters, currently. I made some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind that pisses Hydra off.” He laughs. “I’ll tell you the whole story when you get back.”

“Looking forward to it.” Clint rubs his eyebrows. “Can they trace this call?”

“No. JARVIS is scrambling it. We’ll have to keep it short, though. I don’t want to give them anything else to worry about.” He sighs. “How are you? Last I heard your scary friend said you’d just thrown up everywhere.”

“I did. It was gross. And I’m okay, I think. Really tired. Should probably see a doctor at some point, but I’m okay.” He looks over at the Soldier and smiles. “He did good work.”

“Glad to hear it.” There’s a rustling noise, and then his voice drops lower. “So is this a social call, or…?”

“There’s been some developments since we last talked,” Clint says.

“Good ones?”

“Fury is still alive.”

Tony lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” he says. “I was wondering. Hydra’s been extra pissy as of late.”

“He left something for me in Kiev. I’m stopping there before going to get Nat. We’re outside Bucharest right now. But we need some things. Money, for one.”

“I knew it. You kids always want my money. Is that all you see me as? An ATM?”

“A very nice one,” Clint assures him. “With a great sense of humor and a very generous and glowing heart.”

“Now you’re overselling it. How much do you need?”

“As much as you can give me without arousing suspicion. I’ll give back what I don’t use.”

“Lovely. Got an account number?”

Clint racks his memory. He’s got a couple of supply spots in the city, but he hasn’t been there in a long time and he’s not entirely sure what IDs he has stashed away. He finally gives Tony the account number for his Raymond Shaw identity and hopes like hell that’s one of them. He really doesn’t want to have to make a fake ID.

“Okay. I’ll get you what I can.” Tony pauses, and then says, “I also have a new development to share.”

“I’m guessing from your tone that it's not a good one.”

“Not so much.” Tony sighs. “Fury’s not the only person to come back to life.”

“What? Who else?” Clint tries to think.

There’s another pause, and then Tony says, “I _really_ hate to tell you this, Clint. But Rumlow’s not dead.”

There’s a ringing in Clint’s ears, and he suddenly can’t breathe. The Soldier looks at him with quiet confusion. “Clint?”

Clint replays the scene from the airport. Rumlow, kneeling on the ground. Clint, asking him if it was worth it. Then the things came overhead, and Rumlow had started to move, and Clint had panicked and shot Rumlow on instinct. Three bullets right into center mass, greatest chance of critical injury. Then he’d run, and things had happened so fast after that.

“But I shot him.” His voice is shaking. His hands are shaking. “I saw the…” He stops. No, he hadn’t seen blood. He hadn’t gone back to look. “He didn’t have his tac vest,” he says, scrambling for anything that could make this not true.

“He was wearing body armor,” Tony says. “Testing a new design for me. Less bulky than the vest. Looks more like a regular shirt. You broke some of his ribs and knocked him out. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Clint says, a trickle of fear starting in his gut. “Are you _sure_?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Don't fuck with me, Tony. How sure is pretty sure?”

“He’s currently sitting in my living room, so at least ninety-five percent?”

“ _Fuck_.” Clint rubs his eyes. “Are you okay? And Pepper? What does he want?”

“He wants you. He thinks I had something to do with you going dark, since the tracking data was scrambled.” He cuts off Clint’s next question. “No, he doesn’t know. JARVIS was very careful about that. They’re just suspicious. We’re fine.” He hesitates, then says, “They know you’re going for Romanoff. Be careful.”

Clint lets out a trembling breath. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”

“I’m sorry, man. I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

“It’s not your fault. I should’ve aimed for his fucking head.” Clint grips the phone tighter. “What about Bruce? Have you heard anything about him? Last I saw, he was locked in some kind of cage thing with your logo on the side.”

“Yeah, I know. It was a contingency plan of ours. Something he and I invented together in case Hulk went rogue and needed to be contained.”

“I saw it. It was pretty airtight. He couldn’t get out to come with us.”

“Well, apparently he _was_ able to escape it, because he’s in the wind. They don’t know where he is any more than they know where you are.”

“Really? How?”

“Broke out through the bottom. Rumlow’s pissed about that too. He’s pissed about everything, honestly. It wavers between being funny and terrifying.” Tony’s voice takes on a worried tone. “I have to go, Legolas. JARVIS says someone’s coming down the hall. Get some burner phones and text this number, okay? I’ll set up a date and time for us to talk again.”

“Okay. You be careful too.”

Tony hangs up, and Clint stares at the phone for a moment. Then he deletes the record of the call and hands it back to Elena. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.” She looks concerned, but he really doesn’t care how much of that she just overheard. He’s got bigger things to worry about.

Clint slumps in his seat, and the Soldier nudges him. “What is wrong?”

“Rumlow’s alive.”

The Soldier is very still for a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Tony said he’s in his living room.” Clint rubs one of the cuffs and tries to stay calm. “I should have shot him in the head.” His breathing is getting faster, and he clenches his fists. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

There’s a touch against his fist, gloved fingers carefully prying it open and winding in. “Hey,” the Soldier says, squeezing his hand. “Clint.”

Clint looks at him, eyes wide. He knows the terror is written all over his face, and he doesn’t know how to hide it. “He’s alive. I don’t…I thought he was dead, and he’s not. He’s alive and he’s looking for _me_.”

“He won’t find you,” the Soldier says.

Clint holds back a hysterical laugh. “He’s a persistent motherfucker. You don’t know him like I do. He looked for Bruce for months without stopping, and Bruce didn’t mean anything to him. Not like me. He’s obsessed. He’s not going to stop until he finds me.”

“I do know him.” the Soldier says quietly. “Rumlow was my handler. I know him _very_ well.”

There’s something more to his tone, something intent, and Clint recognizes that look in his eyes. It’s the same one he’s seen looking back at him in the mirror. “You too, huh?” He remembers suddenly what he’d said on the plane, about being _used_.

“Yes,” the Soldier says. “Hydra likes to assert dominance. Order through pain.”

“What a bunch of Nazi assholes,” Clint mutters, and the Soldier barks out a laugh.

“I won’t let him have you again,” he tells Clint. His tone is light, but his gaze is dead serious. “I swear. I’ll kill him first.”

The terror is still there, raw and real, but there is a _promise_ in the Soldier’s words, and Clint clings to it like a lifeline. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

The Soldier sits back, looking out the window. Clint looks out his own, watching the landscape pass by. It doesn’t occur to him until almost ten minutes later that they’re still holding hands.

Well, fuck it. He’s not gonna be the first to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys didn't _really_ think he was dead, did you? :D
> 
> Shoutout to the Anon who was like “wait wasn’t Rumlow going on about his new body armor” Yes. Yes he was. Good catch. 
> 
> Come yell at me about it on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he’s gonna fix it. He’s going to get the Asset back, and Barton too. Then he’s going to haul Barton’s ass down to medical, knock him out and embed a dozen trackers in him—under his skin, in his bones, in his fucking brain if that’s what it takes. Put him in another set of cuffs, maybe get him a matching collar and leash or whatever so he’s within Rumlow’s reach at all times. Do whatever it takes to make Barton understand his fucking place in this new world.

Rumlow is having an _awful_ fucking day. Or series of days, maybe. He doesn’t fucking know anymore. He’s lost track of time since waking up in the back of a Quinjet with four broken ribs and a concussion from whacking his head on the ground. It had been a very silent, very painful ride back with the remnants of his team, and then he’d been greeted at the landing by a _very_ pissed off Pierce and Sitwell. Rumlow couldn’t do anything but stand there and take it as they chewed him out for losing Banner, the Asset, Barton, most of his team, _and_ an expensive cargo jet all in one go.

So yeah, he’s having a bad day. He hasn’t slept in god knows how long, he’s hungry, and every time he thinks about Barton shooting him, he goes practically blind with fury. And to top it off, he’s sitting in a meeting with Sitwell, Rollins, and some morons from the medical team, discussing ways to track Barton and the Asset.

He gets to his feet, unable to take it anymore, and yanks his gun out of its holster. “You mean to tell me,” he says, his voice low, “that not a single one of you _idiots_ have any idea how to find the Asset? The most valuable and expensive piece of equipment in Hydra’s arsenal? You never looked at him and thought ‘gee, maybe we should put a tracker on this guy in case he fucking GOES OFF GRID?’”

“Trackers don’t stay in,” the tech says, looking white. “Its accelerated healing pushed them all out, even when we grafted them to the bone—“

Rumlow shoots him in the head before he can finish talking. “He has a metal arm,” he says, aiming the gun at the next tech. “You gonna tell me accelerated healing works on that too?”

Rollins looks down at the body on the floor. “Was that _really_ necessary?”

“Shut the fuck up, Rollins.” Rumlow puts the gun against the tech’s head. “Well? Is there a damn GPS in his arm or not?”

“The titanium alloy interferes with tracking,” she says calmly. She looks scared, but she’s keeping it together. Some small part of Rumlow vaguely respects that. “We tried at the beginning, but we weren’t able to get a consistent or competent reading. We ended up dropping the idea until GPS technology was able to catch up with it, and it hasn’t yet. The Asset is always with a handler, and always given mission parameters. When its mission is complete—or if it fails—it returns to base.” She looks at Rumlow, face steady. “What mission did you last give it?”

“I told him—“ Rumlow stops suddenly. Thinks about the last mission he gave the Soldier.

_“Your job is to protect him. You only interfere if he’s in danger. Got it?”_

“Fuck,” he says. “I told him to protect Barton.”

“And they’re together now?”

“Last we heard.”

“Then it’s still on mission,” she says. “It’ll continue protecting Barton until Barton is killed, or until it’s told otherwise.”

Rollins snickers. “Cute,” he says idly. “Kinda like the idea of your girlfriends protecting each other.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Rollins.”

“Just saying.” He leans forward. “So what, the Asset’s gonna hang out with Barton until someone stops him?”

The tech nods. “That’s its mission,” she says. “We’re going to have to bring it in manually.”

Rumlow sighs and goes back to his chair. He’s still pissed off, can still feel the anger simmering underneath him like a slow boil. But now it’s directed more at himself than anything. This whole mess is his damn fault. He fucked up _hard_. “Alright,” he says. “So how do we get them?”

Sitwell leans forward. “We know Barton will be going after Romanoff. I’ve already informed the Red Room to expect something.”

“So we set up a trap,” Rollins says. “We talk with the Red Room guys, dangle Romanoff like bait.”

“Barton’s smart,” Sitwell points out. “He’ll be ready for it.”

Rollins scoffs. “Not that smart. If he had any sense, he’d fuck off to a deserted island somewhere and leave Romanoff behind.”

“He’ll never do that,” Rumlow says. He thumbs the safety and sets his gun on the table. “They’re way too fucking wrapped around each other to even consider it.”

Rollins shrugs. “So we set up a trap,” he says again. “We get someone close enough to take freezerburn down, and then it’s just Barton.”

“Unless they hooked up with SHIELD. Or Banner. He’s in the wind again too. They weren’t together when Barton and the Asset left Mumbai, but they might have met up later.”

“That won’t matter,” Sitwell says. “Our goal is to get the Asset back. Rollins is right. We need to get close enough to him to trigger him back to base state.” He looks at the tech. “That’ll still work, right? Otherwise I need to set up a team to subdue him.”

“They’ll work,” she says. “No matter how long it’s been out of cryo, the embedded triggers will always work. They’re the failsafe. We had it out for six weeks straight once and at the end, it walked itself into the Chair on command.”

She sounds perversely proud of this. Rumlow is a little unnerved by it, honestly. The Asset’s a weapon, sure, but the clinical way she talks about him is just…chilling.

“There we go,” Sitwell says. “We send a few of ours in in, they take down Barton and the Asset, and we let the Red Room use the rest as target practice. If Banner is with them, we grab him too.”

The room nods in agreement, and there’s various murmurs of plans being brainstormed. Rumlow sits quietly, lets it all wash over him. He should probably be participating in this, tactically, but he’s got other things on his mind. Or rather, one thing.

Barton.

It was fucking _stupid_ to let him go in alone to see Banner. Rumlow had spewed some line to him and the rest of the team about how it would be less risky if Banner came willingly, and how Hydra didn’t want to injure civilians, and how they were technically still operating under SHIELD’s name. Like all good lies, there was a grain of truth. Hydra did want to minimize casualty and exposure risk, and Banner did come more quietly with Barton to convince him.

But the real reason Rumlow didn’t go in with him is because Banner—or rather, the Hulk—terrifies Rumlow on a visceral level, and he didn't want to risk being stuck in a small room with him in case the guy went off. Rumlow’s not scared of much, but he vividly remembers the day on the Helicarrier, and the carnage that occurred during the Hulk’s rampage. He remembers hearing that inhuman roar, and the shivers it had sent down his spine. Seeing it happen again on the runway had just brought all of those fears screeching back with a vengeance. Especially when the monster tore the entire fucking wing of a plane off, and then managed to break its way out of an impenetrable cage by tunneling _through the concrete below it._

So yeah, sue him. He gave into his fears and fucked things up. But he’s gonna fix it. He’s going to get the Asset back, and Barton too. Then he’s going to haul Barton’s ass down to medical, knock him out and embed a dozen trackers in him—under his skin, in his bones, in his fucking _brain_ if that’s what it takes. Put him in another set of cuffs, maybe get him a matching collar and leash or whatever so he’s within Rumlow’s reach at all times. Do whatever it takes to make Barton understand his fucking place in this new world.

“Brock,” someone says, and Rumlow drags his attention back to the moment. The room is empty now, except for him and Rollins and the corpse on the floor. He hadn’t realized everyone else left.

“Brock?” he repeats, a sneer curling his mouth as he gets to his feet. “Only my mother calls me that, _Jack_ , use my goddamn name.”

“That _is_ your goddamn name,” Rollins smirks, and he reaches over and picks up Rumlow’s gun, putting it in his own holster. “You done throwing a temper tantrum?”

“Shut the fuck up, Rollins.”

“You realize that’s the third time you’ve said that to me? In the last hour, too.” He steps a little closer, making Rumlow back up into the wall. “I know you’re pissed about losing your side piece, but it was your own goddamn fault. I fucking told you not to let him out of your sight.”

Rumlow scowls at him. “I’m gonna fix it.”

“No, _I’m_ going to fix it. You are going to sit tight right here.”

“I’m in charge of this fucking team—“

Rollins shoves him into the wall. “You’re losing your head, kid, and you know it.”

“Don’t call me—”

A hand presses over his mouth. Rumlow bites at him, but Rollins just rolls his eyes. “You’re so wrapped up in finding Barton and getting revenge that you’re not thinking straight, and it shows. You’re being a shit leader right now. So I’m taking over. I’ll go get the Asset, and just to be extra nice, I’ll get your girlfriend for you too.”

“Fuck you very much,” Rumlow says through the hand, and Rollins rolls his eyes again.

“I’m not doing it as a favor, jackass, I’m doing it because it’s pathetic to watch you storm around and rage about him. You’re acting like a moody teenager who got dumped on prom night.”

Rumlow shoves him away. “Why are you such a fucking prick?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your help.”

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna fucking get it anyway.” He smirks. “Add it to the list of other things you owe me.”

Rumlow wants to argue with that, but it’s true. He wouldn’t be leading STRIKE, or probably even be in Hydra at all without Rollins. Rumlow had been young—twenty-two, maybe— when he’d first been accepted onto the team. Full of attitude and the desire to prove everything to everybody, he’d nearly gotten himself killed on the very first mission.

Rollins had saved him, then. Dragged his broken and bleeding ass out of the line of fire and to safety. Later he’d showed up in Rumlow’s hotel room with a six pack, some Vicodin, and bandages. He stitched Rumlow up, then chewed him out hard for putting himself and the team in danger like that. Rumlow had snarled something furious back at him, still prickly from needing to be _rescued_. The argument had gotten ugly, and then violent, and then had somehow ended up with him being fucked against the wall while Rollins squeezed his neck hard enough to leave bruises.

Rumlow’s replayed that night in his mind a thousand times. He’s still not sure when the look in Rollins’s eye had turned from fury to lust, or why Rumlow had folded to his knees with barely more than a shove. But it had happened, and then, even more inexplicably, it had _kept_ happening.

It had started something between them. Rumlow wasn’t sure what. He’s still not. Their relationship—if you could call it that—was a scorched earth policy. Rumlow can’t remember a single encounter between them that didn’t end in blood and bruises and black eyes. But it was what he needed, back then. It was he craved. It was the only thing that sated the constant ache for destruction that always seemed to crawl beneath his skin. The only thing that could calm him when he was full of fire and death after a mission.

He got his act together, at some point. Got a little older, a little wiser. He’s practically mellow now by comparison. Hasn’t needed that particular brand of violence in a long time. Consequently, they haven’t been together in years, not since Rumlow was promoted to commander of the team.

But when they stand like this—Rollins in his space, taking up all the room with nothing more than the sheer force of his presence—it’s hard to not be reminded of those days. And as keyed up and tense as he is, he almost feels like he _needs_ it.

Rollins picks up on this too easily, reading him like a goddamn book. He puts a hand on Rumlow’s chest and pushes him harder into the wall, then steps forward until their bodies are pressed together. “So, _Brock_ ,” he says again, and the word makes Rumlow shiver. “You gonna let me help you?”

“Fuck you,” Rumlow breathes, feeling the familiar rush as the adrenaline dumps into his veins. It’s like the moment before the parachute opens, like the seconds before raiding a building. A thrumming sense of danger that makes everything around him just a little sharper.

“Been a long time,” Rollins says, sliding a hand underneath his shirt. Rumlow shivers at the scrape of his callouses and shoves his hand away. “You sure you can handle it?”

“You sure _you_ can?” Rumlow challenges. “I’m stronger than I used to be, you know—” He hisses in pain as Rollins spins him face-first into the wall without any apparent effort.

“Yeah,” Rollins says dryly, voice warm in his ear, erection pressed against him. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Fuck you,” Rumlow growls, throwing an elbow back. It catches Rollins in the chest but the bastard doesn’t even flinch. Just chuckles and steps back.

“Come on,” he says, holding his fists up. “Get it out of your system, kid.”

“I hate you,” Rumlow snarls, and he launches himself forward.

The fight is brutal, reminiscent of their first times together, all scraped knuckles and split lips and blood running down his face. But it ends the same way those always did too, with Rumlow shoved against the table, biting back a shout of pain as Rollins fucks into him with cruel brutality. “There you go,” he murmurs, not even having the decency to sound winded. “This is what you needed, right?”

Rumlow doesn’t dignify it with an answer. Doesn’t think he could answer, not with the way Rollins’s hand is wrapped around his throat. Doesn’t even want to answer, anyway, because that’s part of the game. Rumlow pretends he doesn’t want it (and maybe he really doesn’t, he can’t tell anymore), and Rollins ignores him. It’s destructive and terrible, but for all that, it still grounds him, yanks him out of his spiral of rage and fury. Brings him back into a frame of mind where he can think again. Maybe he _does_ need this, but he’ll die before he admits it.

Might actually die, if Rollins doesn’t fucking let him breathe, that son of a _bitch_ —

Rollins lets go as he thrusts one more time, spilling inside Rumlow with a low grunt of satisfaction. Rumlow waits for his permission because old habits die hard, and finally gets it with a muttered word and a bite on the back of his neck, like Rollins is a fucking vampire or something. Rumlow breathes out words that might be a curse or a prayer and pushes back onto him, losing himself in the pain-mixed-pleasure of the moment.

They wind down together, the sound of their panting breaths the only thing in the room. Then Rollins pulls out and slaps Rumlow’s ass. “Get up. We got things to do.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says, not moving. He still feels a little liquid, a little woozy, but also better than he did twenty minutes ago. He mostly hates that he feels grateful about it. _Goddamn you, Rollins._

“You little shit,” Rollins says, and it’s—it’s fond, almost. Rumlow turns to look at him, but he can’t see Rollins’s face, and he’s probably just imagining things anyway. “If you’re not out there in two minutes, I’m gonna kick your ass instead of fucking it. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says again, but he makes himself move this time and pulls his pants back up. Watches Rollins walk out, all panther-like and slow. Rumlow wipes the blood off his face and revels in the sting of the wound, remembers how hard Rollins had hit him.

He wonders suddenly if maybe he like all this because Rollins _made_ him like it, back in those days. Trained his brain to make violence and sex and lust go hand-in-hand with each other.

“Probably,” he says to the corpse on the floor as he does his belt up.

He thinks that in a different world, or a different time, he could have done it right with Barton. Taken him out to dinner or some sappy shit like that. Spent some time with him. Gotten to know the guy beyond a professional capacity. Because in all honesty, Rumlow _likes_ Barton. Has ever since South Africa. Since the week in Washington, probably, but South Africa was when he’d _really_ noticed it. He’d watched those asshole terrorists string Barton up, rip his shirt off, and then whip the shit out of him. And sure, Rumlow had noticed all the straining muscles and the miles of abs on display. What can he say, he’s not a nun. But really what he’d appreciated was the fact that Barton had carried on an entire conversation with Rumlow even as the terrorists beat him. Other than a few pained grunts and winces, he’d acted like they were out for a fucking beer or something. Just two buddies shooting the shit while one of them was being whipped to pieces. He never answered a single one of their questions.

It had pissed their captors off to no end, and they’d eventually given up. They untied Barton and dragged him back to Rumlow, then chained him to the wall and left. Rumlow was sure that at that point, he’d drop the act and give into the pain. But no. As soon as the door closed, Barton had pushed up to his knees, flashed a key and a bloody grin in Rumlow’s direction, and said, “Let’s split, yeah?”

That was the pivotal moment. It was like the world shifted after that day, and Rumlow didn’t know how to shift it back, and didn’t really care to anyway. He was so aware of Barton afterwards, of his flippant jokes and his callused hands pulling back a bowstring and that _fucking_ smile. If Rumlow was capable of love, he would have done something decent about it then. 

But he’s not. His brain is hardwired to think this way, or maybe it was re-wired, lust and sex and violence all tied up together in him. So he spent his time watching and waiting, and as soon as there was an opportunity to make Barton _his_ , he took it. Took it with a vengeance, and told the little still-alive-and-screaming piece of his soul to take a fucking hike. And he never regretted a goddamn second of it until the last few days.

Now, he makes himself presentable and goes out into the hallway. Follows Rollins down to the main search room where he resumes his usual position of running point, keeping an eye out for anything and everything. The fury is still there, of course, but it’s more focused now. He feels like he can actually concentrate on _finding_ Barton and the Asset, rather than just seething about them.

“Hey,” one of the computer techs says, raising a hand. “We have a possible incident here.”

Rumlow goes over to look. Some preliminary report about a crashed plane outside of Bucharest. “No bodies found?” he asks, reading over the girl’s shoulder. “That’s…unusual.”

“Plane was reported stolen, too,” she adds. She flips her hair out of her face. “From a private airstrip in Basrah. Which, incidentally, is within the range of the other plane that they stole. It’s possible they landed and got a different plane to try and throw off the trail.”

“That fits,” Rollins says. He’s standing too close. Not close enough for anyone else to notice, but it’s definitely deliberate, and he smirks at Rumlow when Rumlow scowls at him. “So they’re in Bucharest, then?”

“Possibly.” The tech scribbles something on a post-it, then passes it to her coworker. “We can start scanning cameras there now.”

“Good. Do it. And send that report to me.” Rumlow straightens up and shoulder-checks Rollins as he walks past, already coming up with plans and ideas.

Rollins recovers and steps after him. “You know _you’re_ not going to get him.”

“Yeah, I fucking know. You’re a fucking broken record about it, Christ.”

“Just checking. Didn’t want you doing anything stupid.”

“Fuck you, Rollins.”

Rollins chuckles. “Other way around, sweetheart.”

Rumlow leans against the wall. “Don’t break him,” he says. “When you catch up. I want him in one piece. Just drug him or whatever. Knock him the fuck out and haul him back here.”

“Not gonna break your girlfriend.” Rollins rolls his eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, you little pussy.”

“Just bring him back,” Rumlow says. He’s still a little fucked-out from earlier, and he’s too tired to really get into it with Rollins right now. “I just…I need him.”

“Sure.” Rollins cracks his knuckles. “Better not fucking lose him ever again, though. I ain’t doing this shit twice.”

Visions of trackers and leashes and collars swirl through Rumlow’s mind. “Don’t worry,” he says, letting a cruel smile unfold. “He’s never gonna get another chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something something obligatory hydra husbands chapter. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Again, the week in Washington is a reference to [Fury's Sleep-away Camp For Spies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004128). Not necessary to read, but adds some fun extra layers to this fic.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to get food,” the Soldier says. “Are you hungry? What do you like?”
> 
> “I’m starving,” Clint says with feeling. “I will literally eat anything. I have no standards. And if you bring me coffee, I might actually worship at your feet.”
> 
> The Soldier doesn’t respond, both looking and not-looking at Clint, who suddenly realizes that
> 
> A) the shower door is not closed all the way, and
> 
> B) there’s steam, but not enough to really hide anything, and
> 
> C) he’s naked.

They part ways with Elena in Voluntari. She refuses the money the Soldier passes her, so Clint just tucks a roll into her jacket pocket as he gets out. “Thank you,” he says to her. “Seriously. We really appreciate it.”

“Happy to help,” she says. “There is a taxi service down the street. They will take you the rest of the way.”

She pulls away from the curb, and Clint watches her go with a worried feeling in the back of his mind. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“I think so,” the Soldier says. “Even if they know we’re here, Hydra has no reason to follow her.”

They catch a taxi to downtown. It’s been a long time since Clint was in Bucharest, but he remembers the general layout of it. He has the driver let them out by the natural history museum.

“Keep your head down,” he says to the Soldier as they get out. “Try to avoid cameras, if you can.”

“What are we doing?”

“Picking up some stuff.” He looks around the corner. “I’ve got a couple drop spots in the city, but this is closest one.”

“Drop spots?”

“Stashes. IDs, money, weapons.” He frowns. “No weapons in this one, unfortunately. But Tony wired some money into an account for us, so if I have the right ID and stuff, we’ll be able to get at it. Then we can get some train tickets to Kiev. Maybe also get some food, because I’m hungry again. And don’t give me that shit about being functional, either. You’re hungry too.”

The Soldier doesn’t argue. “And if you don’t have the right ID?”

“Then I guess we’re mugging someone for money again.” Clint pauses at the steps of the museum. “Okay. I need you to get out of sight somewhere. Hydra’s looking for both of us, and you’re…distinctive.”

The Soldier eyes him. “ _I’m_ distinctive? You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

“I _have_ been in a fight. Several, actually.” He motions to his eye. “Does it really look that bad?”

“It looks painful,” the Soldier says. He reaches out and gently thumbs over the bruise. Clint’s breath catches a little bit. “Who did this, anyway?”

“Rumlow.” Clint shudders at the name again. “He was pissed about not being able to find Bruce, and he, uh…well, he kinda took it out on me.”

The Soldier scowls. It’s like a thunderstorm over his face, and it’s terrifying. Clint is really glad it’s not directed at him. “He will not get another chance.”

Clint puts his hand over the Soldier’s, pressing it to his cheek. “I know, man. But in order for us to make that possible, we kind of need to get this done. So I need you to go hang out over at that cafe for a bit, and keep your head down, and let me go do my thing. Okay?”

He gently thumbs over the bruise again, and then reluctantly says, “You have twenty minutes.”

Clint smiles. “I can do that. Give me some money.”

The Soldier moves his hand and digs out a couple bills. “Twenty minutes,” he says again, pressing them into Clint’s hand. Clint swaps them for his weapons, looking around to make sure no one is watching.

“I promise.” Clint pushes him. “Go. Sit. Get us some food, maybe.”

He turns and looks up at the museum, trying to remember where exactly he stored his stuff. It was in a bathroom, he thinks. Second floor, maybe? Third? He shakes his head and starts up the steps. _You’ll find it._

He pays admission, attempting to look as un-suspicious as possible. The security guy eyes him anyway, gaze moving from his face to his head wound to the cuffs around his wrists. Clint shoves his hands in his pocket and tries for a nervous smile. “How you doing,” he says, shoving the ticket in his pocket. “Can you direct me to the bathroom, maybe?”

The guard looks annoyed, but he points up the stairs. Clint salutes him with two fingers and jogs off.

The bathrooms are down a long hallway that looks vaguely familiar. He follows it to the end, looks around, and then steps into the men’s. “Ah,” he says, closing the door and locking it. “Yep. This is it.”

It takes him a moment to pry the soap dispenser out of place, but once it’s off, he finds the ziplock bag exactly where he stashed it all those years ago. He yanks it open and skims through the various things inside. A couple trick arrowheads, a couple bills, some bullets, and a granola bar that’s probably a science experiment by now. He drops that in the trash.

Someone knocks on the door, and he instantly goes tense, hand frozen inside the bag. There’s a pause, and then another knock.

“Just a moment,” he finally says. The words come out in a whisper, and he clears his throat. “Just a moment!”

He flips through the multiple IDs—one of them’s Raymond Shaw, _score_ —and shoves the whole thing in his pocket. Then he puts the soap dispenser back in place and picks up one of the trick arrowheads from where it fell in the sink.

The knocking comes again, and he clenches his fist around it. “Hang on,” he says, and readies himself as he opens the door. He’s expecting a gun, or a Hydra agent, or the security guard—

It’s a kid. Probably ten years old, with short brown hair and wide eyes.

They stare at each other for a moment, then Clint blinks. “Excuse me,” he says, stepping to the side. The kid stares up at him with a curious expression, then moves past him into the bathroom. As soon as the door closes, Clint collapses against the wall and tries to calm his racing heart.

_Easy, Hawkeye. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve been on the run._

Which is true, it’s not. He’s had to cut and run from plenty of guys way scarier than Rumlow. Like that one time he and Nat had to hide in the forest from three ex-KGB guys with a vendetta, or when they’d crashed a helicopter in Afghanistan and had to spend two weeks avoiding both the pursuing Mossad agents _and_ the Taliban. He’s been in way worse situations than this before.

And yet.

_Should’ve aimed for the head, Hawk._

Clint takes a deep breath and pushes himself off the wall. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he suspects that he doesn’t have long before the Soldier comes stalking after him. So he pulls himself together and spends a few minutes perusing an exhibit, then leaves out one of the side doors.

The Soldier is waiting for him at the cafe. Clint drops into the chair opposite him and offers a shaky smile. “Got it. Right ID and everything.”

“Good,” he says, and then he narrows his eyes at Clint. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” The eyes narrow more. “ _Nothing_ ,” he insists. “I got—it was stupid, just some kid knocking on the door. I’m just…” He rubs his eyebrows. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m on edge, and I’m really pissed at myself for not shooting Rumlow in the goddamn head.”

“I know,” the Soldier says. “I’m sorry.”

Clint shakes his head. “Come on. We need to figure out the train.”

“I asked, actually. There’s a train leaving tonight at midnight. We can get tickets at the station.”

“Huh? Who told you that?”

“The waitress.”

“What, you just asked her?”

“You’re not the only one who can be charming,” the Soldier says, and he flashes Clint a brilliant smile. It changes his whole face in an instant, melting away the cold stoic look for something warm and open. Clint stares at him, half of him in shock, half of him wanting to keep it there forever.

It takes him a moment to be able to speak again. “Ah,” he says faintly, clearing his throat. “Well. Glad to know you think I’m charming.”

They look at each other for a moment, air thick with tension. Then a waitress drops a menu on the table in front of Clint and asks him something in Romanian. He jumps a little and turns to face her. “Sorry?”

The Soldier answers for him and stands up. “Come on,” he says, and he actually sounds a little flustered himself. “We should get out of sight.”

“Uh.” Clint shakes himself into action. “Yeah. If the train’s not until tonight, we should…” He looks at the Soldier, and then down at himself, realizing just for the first time how completely grimy they are. He’s still wearing the clothes he left the States in. The Soldier’s still in his strappy black leather vest getup, although he’d picked up a jacket at some point to help cover his arm. “We should get a hotel room, honestly. To shower and stuff.”

Two seconds later, the sentence hits him, and he winces. But the Soldier doesn’t seem to notice the phrasing. “Shower,” he says, and Clint nods. “Okay. That sounds good.”

They find a hotel a few blocks down the street, and Clint forks over enough money to get them a room for the night. It’s a nice room—single queen bed, old television on the wall, balcony with a view of the street below, locked door leading to the next room. There’s even a little kitchenette. Clint gives the room a cursory once-over, doing his usual check, and then turns to the Soldier. “Not so bad.”

“Stayed in worse,” the Soldier agrees. He frowns. “I think, anyway.”

Clint gestures to the bathroom. “You should shower. There’s a thrift store down the street. I’m gonna buy us some new clothes.”

Another frown. “Why?”

“Uh, because we’re both gross? Look at us, man. I mean, in these clothes alone, we’ve jumped off buildings, crashed a plane, and walked through the forest.” Clint tugs at his shirt, which has definitely seen better days. Then he looks a little closer. “Also, I’m pretty sure this is actually Rumlow’s shirt.” He fights the urge to rip it over his head and set it on fire.

The Soldier looks less than thrilled about this idea, but Clint nudges him towards the shower. “Go on. It’ll take me like, half an hour. It’ll help us hide, too. We probably should have done this in Mumbai, honestly. First rule of going on the run is make yourself look different.” He eyes the Soldier’s hair, half-wondering if they should cut it or something.

The Soldier still looks less than thrilled, but finally says, “Fine. Thirty minutes.”

Clint stifles a laugh. “Sure. Thirty minutes.”

It takes him forty, actually, since he also drops by an ATM and withdraws an obscene amount of money, and picks up a couple of burner phones. _Thank you, Tony._ But the Soldier is still in the shower when he comes back, so he counts it as a win. Clint drops the bag of clothes on the bed, then tucks the cash and the phones into their backpack. He doesn’t really want to sit on the nice white covers looking the way he is, so he settles himself on the floor by the nightstand and flicks on the TV. It’s all in Romanian, obviously, but he finds some crap reality show and stays on that, letting the yelling voices wash over him like a soothing wave.

He must fall asleep like that, because the next thing he knows, there’s a shadow over him and someone is calling his name. Clint startles awake. “Shit, sorry,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to fall…”

The rest of that sentence dies in his throat as he looks up, because _Jesus Christ,_ the Soldier is standing in front of him wearing nothing but a towel and a slightly concerned expression. “Are you alright?”

“Uh…” Clint says, vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open. “I…”

Shoulders. That’s all he can register, at first. Big, broad shoulders, all muscled and smooth and gorgeous. Then his eyes sweep downward, moving over the chest to the frankly _unfair_ amount of abs, down to where the towel is slung low over defined hips.

“Uh…” he says again, because all coherent thought has fled his brain and he’s not entirely sure what words are anymore.

The Soldier is staring at him too, when Clint finally drags his gaze back upwards. His wet hair is framing his face, and there’s a slight smile at the edge of his mouth. “Clothes,” he says.

“Huh?”

“The clothes.”

Clint blinks. “Clothes?”

The Soldier holds up a shirt. “Which ones are mine?”

“Oh.” Clint scrambles up to his feet. “These. These are yours. Here.” He shoves a bundle at the Soldier. “Sorry if they don’t fit, I had to guess at your size, and there weren’t a ton of options so I just kind of grabbed what—”

“It’s fine,” the Soldier interrupts, still looking amused. “Bathroom’s open. Go shower.”

Clint grabs his own clothes and hightails it into the bathroom. As soon as the door closes behind him, he drops them on the floor and leans on the sink. “For fucks sake,” he mutters, burying his head in his hands. His face is absolutely _burning_. “Get a _grip_ , Hawkeye.”

He straightens up and gets undressed, trying very hard not to think about abs or shoulders or anything else. _It’s not the time, man,_ he tells himself sternly. _Nat is counting on you, and Rumlow’s still alive, and neither of you are really very safe right now, and you don’t even know if he likes you anyway, so stop acting like a fucking teenager and get in the damn shower._

Clint takes a deep breath and looks in the mirror. He really does look like shit; he’s surprised they let him into the museum at all. There’s dried blood on the side of his head, and his black eye is pretty gnarly looking, and there’s handprint-shaped bruises all over his arms. He prods one of them, wincing at the flare of pain, and then wincing again at the whispered words that come with it.

_“You would not believe how tight that made him.”_

_“That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen. Tell me you got video.”_

There’s a thumping noise, and his fist is suddenly aching. Clint blinks and pulls it out of the wall, scowling at the blood now covering his knuckles. “Ow.”

The Soldier knocks on the door. “Clint? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“What was that?”

“I punched the wall.”

There’s a pause, and then an curious, “Why?”

“I’m…not really sure.” It’s a lie. He brushes the plaster off his knuckles and inspects the dent in the wall. _Whoops._ “It’s fine. I broke the wall, not me.”

Another pause, and then, “Okay.”

Clint reaches out with his right hand and turns the water on. “Don’t think about it,” he mutters, and steps into the spray. Then he _can’t_ think about it, because the warmth of the water drives everything else from his brain and all he can do is make a pathetic little moaning sound.

He stands there for a long time, hands braced against the wall, just letting the water roll down his back. It’s probably the best feeling Clint’s ever experienced in his entire life. He’s never going to leave it. Screw the rescue missions, he’s going to move in here full-time. If Rumlow wants him, he’s going to have come in here and pry the shower head from Clint’s cold, dead hands.

Eventually, though, there’s another knock on the door. Clint reluctantly pulls himself away from the water. “What?”

There’s a muffled phrase that Clint can’t hear properly. He scrubs the water from his eyes and slides opens the shower door a bit. “Just come in,” he calls. “I can’t hear you.”

Another pause. Then the bathroom door cracks open and the Soldier steps in. Clint apparently did a fairly good job of guessing his size, because it all seems to fit him well. He tried to stick to innocuous clothes—jeans and a t-shirt, really—but the Soldier is one of those people who apparently just looks fantastic in _everything_. Between that and the leather jacket and the serious expression—

_Stop staring at him before this turns into a cold shower._

He clears his throat and forces his attention back to the matter at hand. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to get food,” the Soldier says. “Are you hungry? What do you like?”

“I’m _starving_ ,” Clint says with feeling. “I will literally eat anything. I have no standards. And if you bring me coffee, I might actually worship at your feet.”

The Soldier doesn’t respond, both looking and not-looking at Clint, who suddenly realizes that

A) the shower door is not closed all the way, and

B) there’s steam, but not enough to really hide anything, and

C) he’s naked.

There’s a moment of _fuck-fuck-shit_ when he grabs for a towel or something to cover up, but like the idiot that he is, he loses his balance and starts to fall.

The Soldier is there instantly, darting across the room and throwing open the door to catch him. He wraps his hand around Clint’s forearm and pulls him upright, and Clint reflexively grabs at him, and then they both do an awkward shuffle thing. The final result is that he ends up flat against the shower wall with the Soldier pressed against him.

“Hi,” Clint says, also like the idiot he is.

“Hi,” the Soldier says, sounding a little unsure.

“You’re getting wet,” Clint adds.

He looks at the spray of water, then back at Clint. “Yes.”

“You can let go of me now.”

“Yes.”

But he doesn’t.

They are _very_ close together, Clint realizes. Close enough that if he leans forward he could just kiss him, like everything in him is absolutely screaming to do.

So he does.

Their lips touch gently, more of a question than an actual kiss. A moment where things could really go either way. The Soldier is frozen underneath him, muscles tense under his hands, and for a terrible second Clint thinks _oh god you idiot you just ruined everything._

Then he makes a soft sound and kisses back, pressing Clint even harder into the wall. The kiss is gentle at first, then building with a swift intensity that leaves Clint clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

They break apart after either a few seconds or a few years, Clint’s not really sure which one. He gasps in a breath and looks up, meeting the Soldier’s stunned gaze. He looks…well, he looks confused, like he’s not entirely sure what just happened, or what to do about it.

“Um,” Clint says, some part of him aware that he’s still naked, and the shower is still on. “That…”

The Soldier clears his throat. “I’ll—I’ll be back later.” He lets go, stepping backwards out of the shower, and gestures vaguely with one hand. “You should…carry on.”

Then he’s gone, the door closing behind him. Clint stares after him, one hand still braced on the wall to hold himself up.

“What just happened?” he asks the towel.

The towel doesn’t answer, so Clint just reaches out and pulls the shower door closed. He turns the water as hot as it will go, then grabs the soap and gets to work. His mind is spinning with the memory of the kiss, and it isn’t until he’s finished dressing that he realizes he got through the whole rest of the shower without once thinking of Rumlow or the plane. _Well. That’s an improvement._

The Soldier isn’t back when he gets out, although the TV is still on, showing the news now. Clint sits on the bed and listens for a moment, then gets up and paces around.

“Okay,” he finally says out loud. “So you kissed him. And he kissed you. That was a thing that happened. A good thing. I think.”

He _hopes_ it was a good thing. He hadn’t exactly asked for permission. He’d just gone for it.

Maybe—

Maybe the Soldier hadn’t wanted it. He’d frozen up at first, and Clint hadn’t pulled back. He’d just…kept going. Kept pushing it.

His legs wobble a little and he sits on the bed, staring into space. “Shit,” he mutters, propping his chin on his hands.

_He kissed you back,_ some part of him argues. _He absolutely kissed you back._

“Yeah.”

_So he wanted it._

Clint blinks. “I guess…”

His gaze drifts over to the sink, and the hotel room suddenly seems to fade away. He sees his own apartment instead, his own sink. Feels the soapy water on his hands as he washes dishes, trying desperately to pretend like he’s doing something normal, pretend that Rumlow isn’t there, staring at him, making him want to crawl out of his own skin—

_“What the fuck are you doing?”_

_“Dishes? I know it doesn’t look like it, but I do on occasion clean up around here.”_

Rumlow had kissed him then. Clint had been too surprised to push him off. He’d done exactly what the Soldier did. He’d frozen for a second, and then he’d—

He’d kissed Rumlow back.

_So doesn’t that mean_ you _wanted it?_

“I didn’t,” he says, gripping at his hair. “I didn’t want it, I told him _no_.”

_Can’t have it both ways, Hawkeye._

“Just shut _up!_ ” he shouts, and jumps to his feet. He needs—he needs his bow, he needs to shoot something, or punch something. Needs to move. Needs to get away from himself. _Christ_. Between the blatant ogling and the kissing, he’s just as bad as Rumlow. The Soldier never asked for any of that. Clint just _assumed_ he wanted it. Drew conclusions off a couple looks and a blush or two. And yeah, body language is a thing, and yeah, all signs pointed to go, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Sure as hell doesn’t excuse not asking. If he goes down that road, then that logically means there were some times he wanted it with Rumlow, and _nothing_ could be further from the truth.

“There is something wrong with you,” he mutters, leaning against the window, looking at the street without really seeing it. He puts his forehead against the glass, lets the coldness seep onto his skin. “Something really, _really_ wrong.”

He watches a couple of people walk down the street. Not Hydra, probably. Just couples going about their daily business. He keeps his eyes on them anyway until they disappear around the corner, trying to focus on something other than his acute sense of shame.

Okay. He can’t do it again. No more kissing. No more staring. He’s going to be good and keep his hands to himself and quit pushing the issue. This isn’t the time to be having feelings, anyway, or whatever the hell this is. He needs to focus on saving Nat, and getting his other friends back. He doesn’t have time to be mooning after a super soldier with memory issues, no matter how pretty his eyes are.

There’s a buzzing sound at the door, and a lock clicking open. Clint jumps and snatches up his gun, aiming it at the door. There’s no time to hide, so he just gets himself ready and—

“It’s just me,” says the Soldier. He hasn’t stepped in yet, just cracked the door a little. “Clint? Don’t shoot me.”

Clint relaxes and drops the gun on the bed. “Yeah. I hear you.”

The door opens the rest of the way and he steps in. “There was a cart three streets over,” he says, holding up a bag. His shirt is still wet from the shower. Clint looks away. “I got some _mititei_.”

“Got what?”

“ _Mititei_.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“I don’t either, but you said you eat anything, and it was cheap.”

Clint takes the bag, careful not to brush fingers, and looks into it. “Smells good.”

“Yes.” The Soldier is studying him, eyes intent on his face. Clint avoids his gaze and pulls out a container. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“And the wall?”

“Less fine. We won’t be getting our security deposit back.”

“You look—”

Clint cuts him off. “The twenty questions routine isn’t necessary, Sherlock. Can we just eat? Please?”

The Soldier looks slightly hurt, but he just nods and takes his own container. He sits on the bed, leaving a space for Clint. “I didn’t see anyone,” he says. “While I was out.”

“I think we’re okay for the moment,” Clint agrees, avoiding the bed and sitting in the chair. “Not to say we should totally relax, but I don’t think they’re going to bust down the door or anything right now. The riskiest place for us will probably be the train station.”

“Agreed.” The Soldier gestures to the container in Clint’s hands. “Eat. We can work out a plan after.”

Clint eats. Mititei, apparently, is some kind of mini-sausage thing. It’s good, actually. Tastes vaguely of lamb, and there are fries and mustard to go with it. He devours everything eagerly. The food helps take some of the edge off his mood. He still feels like shit about what happened, but it’s less potent now.

He sets the empty container on the floor and leans back in the chair. “Good choice.”

“It sounded familiar,” the Soldier says. He looks down at his own food. “I think I might have had it before.” He sounds disappointed, like he’s sad he can’t remember. He probably is.

“I guess you wouldn’t have any favorite foods,” Clint says. “Or don’t remember them.”

He shakes his head. “I am not supposed to.”

“To remember?”

“To have favorites.”

“What?” Clint leans forward in the chair. “They didn’t let you _like_ stuff?”

“The Asset is not a person,” the Soldier says. There’s that robotic tone to his voice again, like when he was describing the Chair. “The Asset is a weapon. It does as commanded, quickly and efficiently, without complaint. It is not the Asset’s place to choose or make requests. It is the Asset’s place to obey.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Clint says, gaping at him. He’s having a hell of a time maintaining his whole no-hands resolution, because he really just wants to go over and wrap the Soldier in a hug. Shield him from the world for a minute, because that’s the most fucked up thing he’s ever heard in his _life_ , and he’s been living in Rumlow’s nightmare sleepover camp for the past few months. “That’s…”

“So no.” The Soldier eats one of his fries, all nonchalant, like that was a totally normal thing to say. “I don’t have favorite foods. I don’t have a favorite anything.”

Well, then.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says after a moment. “I wasn’t trying to be an ass about it.”

“Neither was I.” The Soldier shrugs. “That’s just how it is. It’s just…protocol.”

Clint shakes his head. “Fucking Nazis and their fucking protocols.” He points at the Soldier. “When we get out of this, I’m taking you out to a bunch of different places. We’ll figure out what you like to eat. There’s a great taco place over on Broadway that’s got fantastic guacamole, I bet you’d like that.”

There’s a little smirk at that. “I thought we were going to do a James Bond marathon and drink.”

“So we’ll drink margaritas. Margaritas and tacos and James Bond. It’ll be great.” Clint smiles at him, and the Soldier smiles back, and Clint feels the urge to get up and kiss him again, and—

_No._

He looks away quickly, feeling the shame flush through him. “I need to sleep for a little bit,” he says, trying to change the subject as casually as possible. “Is that okay? Not long, but I’m pretty dead on my feet.”

The Soldier looks…disappointed, almost. “Yes. That’s fine.” He moves off the bed. “You can sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“Wake me up in an hour or so,” Clint says, moving to the bed. “Seriously. Don’t pull the whole _I’m functional_ bullshit. We can take turns doing this until we leave.”

“I will wake you.” The Soldier takes the chair, props a gun on his thigh and looks out the window.

Clint sprawls onto the bed in a way he hasn’t been able to do in months, what with Rumlow being next to him, and Clint _literally_ being chained to the bed. It’s nice to spread out for once. He shoves a pillow under his head and closes his eyes.

He’s almost asleep when the Soldier quietly shifts in his chair and says, “I’m not answering to Sherlock.”

Clint cracks an eye and grins at him. “That’s okay, buddy. I’ve got more.”

“Can’t wait,” the Soldier sighs, and Clint falls asleep still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s feet stutter to a stop without his permission, and he stares, trying to force his brain into processing what he’s seeing. Because that’s—
> 
> That’s _Jack Rollins_ , standing twenty feet in front of him, and next to him is another Hydra agent, one Clint vaguely recognizes as being SHIELD in a previous life.
> 
> “What the fuck,” Rollins says, looking surprised as hell to see Clint. The other agent—Brennan, Clint’s pretty sure—turns at the words, and makes a little noise.

The Soldier does wake him, although it’s two hours instead of one. Clint decides not to squabble about it, partially because he really _was_ exhausted, and partially because that means the Soldier now gets to sleep for the same amount of time, and Clint is nothing if not fair.

He spends the interim time alternating between watching the window and watching the TV, then wakes the Soldier up by throwing pillows at him. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to have his wrist almost broken again, but in all honesty it’s because he’s maintaining his _do not touch_ rule. Besides, it’s a little comical the way the Soldier startles awake as soon as the first pillow makes contact.

“Morning,” Clint says, throwing the second one anyway, then squints out the window. “Or afternoon, I guess. Sleep okay?”

“Yes,” the Soldier says, batting aside the second one with a mildly annoyed noise. He gets up and goes into the bathroom. When he comes back out, he’s staring at the bed with an odd expression on his face.

“What’s the problem?”

The Soldier blinks, like he forgot Clint was there for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “Nothing. I just don’t remember the last time I slept in a bed.”

Which sounds like something innocuous to say. Something Clint himself would throw out after a long mission with Natasha. _Oh man, I can’t wait to go home. I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed._ Except the Soldier looks very much like he _doesn’t_ remember the last time he slept in a bed, and Clint’s heart twists a little at the thought. All he can think of to say is, “That sucks.”

He winces. _Way to be comforting, Hawkeye._ But the Soldier seems to relax at his words. “Yes,” he says. “They did not allow me to sleep very often. It caused…” He frowns, like he’s trying to come up with a phrase, then waves a hand by his head.

“Memory regeneration,” Clint says. “Or memory storage, I guess? I know sleep and memory kind of go together.”

“Correct.” He sits on the bed. “It makes me unstable. Not functional.”

“Stop saying that.” Clint throws another pillow at him. “You’re not unstable.”

He catches it and throws it back. “No, it’s fine. I want to be.”

Clint ducks. “You _want_ to be unstable?”

“I want what it means,” the Soldier says. His voice is fierce, suddenly. Possessive. “When _they_ say it, it means—” He presses his head into his hands for a moment, then looks at Clint. “It means I am changing. I am—I am not their asset. Not anymore. Not entirely. They call it unstable, and they put me in the Chair, and they reset me. Make me functional.”

He gets up and starts pacing. There’s a slightly manic look to his eye, an intensity Clint’s never seen before. It’s mesmerizing, almost. Like watching a panther prowl around, right down to the little primal part of his brain that’s screaming at him to _stay still._

The Soldier stops. Then he sits heavily on the bed, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together.

“You okay?” Clint ventures, because he’s not sure what else to say.

After a long moment, the Soldier looks over at him. “I am tired,” he finally says, “of just being functional.” He takes a shuddering breath and rubs his forehead. “I want to be unstable. I want to be a _person_.”

That last sentence is barely audible. He flinches a little as he says it too, like he’s waiting for someone to punish him for daring to voice it.

That’s it. Clint can’t take it anymore. He gets up from the chair and takes careful steps towards the bed, telegraphing his motions clearly. The Soldier keeps staring at the space between his feet, but Clint can see the tenseness in his whole body.

He sits on the bed next him. “Hey.”

The Soldier looks at him. There are tears in his eyes, a wet sheen that he immediately tries to blink away. “What?”

Clint clears his throat. _Just ask him._ “Uh. Can I…” He raise his arms a little, then says, “Can I hug you?”

The Soldier gapes a little. “Can you… _hug_ me?”

A flush creeps up Clint’s neck and he shrugs, trying for offhand and not really succeeding. “Yeah.” He picks up his hand, then drops it again. “You know. Hugs.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like you need one,” Clint says honestly.

The Soldier stares at him for a moment longer, then makes a _go on_ gesture that looks as sad as the rest of him. Clint reaches out and carefully wraps his arms around him, pulling him into what has to be the world’s most awkward embrace. The Soldier is stiff in his arms, and still tense, and it’s uncomfortable for everyone involved. Clint’s about to call it quits when the Soldier finally lets out a little breath and relaxes slightly, shifting a bit to lean against him.

“There you go,” Clint says. “See, this is good for you.”

“Good for me?”

“Yeah. Makes your brain release a chemical.” Clint thinks for a moment. “Oxycontin or whatever.”

The Soldier is quiet for a moment, and then he starts shaking. Slightly alarmed, Clint pulls back to look at him. “You okay?”

“ _Oxytocin_ ,” the Soldier says, and Clint realizes he’s laughing. “It’s called oxytocin. Oxycontin is a drug.”

“Whatever,” Clint says, settling back into it. He can feel his face heat up. “Both things make you feel better.”

The Soldier is still laughing. “If you say so.”

“Stop it,” Clint says, poking him in the side. “Point is, hugs are nice.”

“Okay.”

“And you _are_ a person.” Clint pats his arm. “Just because they tried to brainwash you into being a murderbot doesn’t mean you’re not a person. Don’t say that.”

“They took my memories,” the Soldier says. “And my name, and my body, and everything else that I had. They emptied me out and filled me with what _they_ wanted.” He shudders a little. “How can I be a person if I don’t have anything?”

Clint shakes his head. “They didn’t get _everything_. Look at yourself. We got away from Hydra—” he stops to think “—what, like twenty-four hours ago? A little more?” _Jesus, it’s been a long day._ “And you’re already having some memories and stuff come back, right? You remembered blowing up the airfield, and seventeen languages, and weird plane facts.”

“But I don’t know—”

“Give it some time,” Clint says. “We’ll figure it out. Both of us. And once all this shit is over, we’ll get you a fancy notebook or something, and we can write it all down. Then you’ve got it in two places, and you can organize it all, and no one can take it from you again. How’s that sound?”

The Soldier is quiet for a moment. “That sounds nice,” he finally says, and leans a little more into Clint.

Clint’s not sure how long they sit like that. Long enough for his arms to get stiff, at least. Still, he doesn’t move until the Soldier gently pushes against him. “We should talk,” he says.

“About…?” Clint lets him go, squashes down the little part of him that demands to stay there forever.

“Tonight. The train. We need a plan.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He gets off the bed and grabs the backpack, then digs around in it. “I’ve got a couple of passports and stuff here.” He flips through them and tosses one over. “Here, I think we can pass this one off as you. Your hair’s a little long but that’s explainable.”

The Soldier catches it. “Maybe.” He sounds doubtful.

“It’ll be fine. It’s a midnight train to a neighboring country, no one’s gonna look too close.” Clint slips his own into his pocket, then digs out a share of the money. “Here. Take some of this too.”

“I think we should go separately,” the Soldier says. “To the station, I mean. Hydra will be looking for two people together, so we should split up until we’re on the train.”

Clint starts to protest, but he’s technically right. They should split up. It would be smarter. “Yeah, okay. Here—” He programs two of the burner phones with each others numbers, then tosses one at the Soldier. “I’ll go in first,” he says. “Scout it out, see if there’s anything suspicious. You come in about fifteen, twenty minutes after me.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I’ll go in first.”

“I can do it.”

“What if Hydra is there?”

“Then I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.” Clint raises an eyebrow. “I know my face doesn’t showcase it, but I _am_ perfectly capable of handling myself in a fight.”

“I’m going in first, Clint.”

“What makes you the better option?”

“I’m the better fighter.”

“I’m a better shot.”

_That_ gets him a skeptical look. “That so?”

“I am,” Clint says, a little offended. “I’m a great shot. That’s my whole thing with the Avengers. I’m their marksman. I can hit anything.”

“I see.”

Clint scowls. “Don’t take that tone. You’ve seen me shoot. What about in Mumbai? I took out a whole bunch of them.”

“Beginner’s luck.”

“You—” Clint starts, but then he sees the half-hidden smile, and rolls his eyes. “Oh, you _dick_.”

The Soldier laughs a little and gets up. “I’m still going in first.”

“Fine. Be like that.” Clint gets up and grabs one of the room keys, an idea occurring to him. “Okay. I’m going to go downstairs. See if they have any computers.”

“Why?”

“Train tickets. I know you said we can buy them at the station, but if I can get them online, that’s one less person we have to talk to.” The Soldier looks unhappy about this, and Clint holds up a hand. “It’s fine. It’s just downstairs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I can come—”

“Stay. It’s _fine_.” Clint points at the bed. “Watch some TV or something. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, you have my permission to come stalking downstairs and loom over me like an overprotective bat.”

The Soldier raises an eyebrow. “Like a what?”

“You heard me.” Clint puts his hand on the door. “Okay?”

“Fifteen minutes,” the Soldier says, looking over at the clock on the wall. “No more.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.”

Clint waves cheerily at him, then steps out. He’s oddly…floaty, in a way, as he walks towards the elevators. _Happy_ , he realizes after a moment. He’s happy.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s just odd. He hasn’t been happy in a while. It’s been mostly anger and loathing, with a little bit of helplessness and terror on the side. The last time he was truly happy was a couple days before Fury died, when he and Nat stole Steve’s motorcycle and took it upstate for a one-day vacation. They’d hung out by a lake, and had a picnic, and it had been nice. Relaxing.

_Oxytocin,_ he decides, taking the elevator to the first floor. _Just your brain spitting out chemicals. That’s all this is. Don’t read too much into it._

There is indeed a little computer room, and the front desk lady is more than happy to give him an access code. “Half an hour,” she says, handing it over. “Then you need a new one.”

“Thank you,” Clint says.

He gets on the computer. After fumbling with the settings for a few minutes, he changes the language and manages to find the relevant website. Apparently the universe is looking out for them in some manner, because the train to Kiev only runs once a week, and there’s still seats left. _Guess we finally got lucky for something._ He gets the tickets and tries to enjoy the moment, because ‘lucky’ and ‘Clint Barton’ do not generally go together.

He prints them, then spends a couple moments checking out the news from back home, seeing if there’s anything big going on he might have missed. It doesn’t look like it. There’s not even anything about the ongoing absence of the Avengers, which he would’ve thought might have been noticed. But there’s nothing. _So either Hydra is suppressing the news, or maybe we weren’t as important as we thought we were._

The thought is humbling, in a way. He tucks it away for later and puts the tickets into his pocket, then heads out the door. The lady at the front desk is busy with a couple of guys. He waves at her in thanks. She waves back, and one of the guys looks over his shoulder at Clint.

Clint’s feet stutter to a stop without his permission, and he stares, trying to force his brain into processing what he’s seeing. Because that’s—

That’s _Jack Rollins_ , standing twenty feet in front of him, and next to him is another Hydra agent, one Clint vaguely recognizes as being SHIELD in a previous life.

“What the fuck,” Rollins says, looking surprised as hell to see Clint. The other agent—Brennan, Clint’s pretty sure—turns at the words, and makes a little noise.

There’s a moment where they’re all frozen like deer in the headlights, and Clint has an absurd urge to laugh. Because of _course_ this is his life. Of _course_ they would find him here. He got lucky with the train thing, which means the other shoe was bound to drop. He just wasn’t expecting it so soon.

The moment extends for an eternity, all three of them gaping at each other.

Then Clint says, “Nope,” and bolts down the hallway.

There’s a thundering of footsteps after him, but Clint has always been faster than Rollins. He skids around the corner and up the stairs, taking them three at a time. He crashes through the door and tears down the hallway, digging the room key out of his pocket and slamming it against the reader.

The Soldier already has a gun out and pointed at the door by the time he falls through it. “What’s going on?” he demands.

“They’re here,” Clint says, gasping for breath. “They found us.”

Instantly, the Soldier’s face goes dark. He tosses Clint a gun. “Get behind me.”

“It’s Rollins and Brennan,” Clint says, catching it, a part of him registering sadness at Brennan’s name. He’s always gotten along well with Brennan; it’s disappointing to see he’s just another evil bastard. He reaches into his pocket and shoves one of the tickets at the Soldier. “Probably more. Take this. We’re splitting up.”

“Absolutely _not_ —"

Clint swings the bag over his shoulder. “Don’t argue with me,” he snaps, moving over to the door connecting their room to the next. “We’re splitting up; we were gonna do it anyway. We’ve got better chances that way. Split up, find a crowd, blend in. You’ve got the ticket and the ID. I’ll meet you on the train at midnight.”

“And if you don’t?”

Clint pauses, the implication of those words hitting him like a two-by-four. Because if he doesn’t make it, then he’ll either be dead, or recaptured, and he’s not sure which one would be worse. “Then you keep going,” he says. “Without me. Go get Nat, she can help. Get Nat, contact SHIELD, rescue Steve. That’s the mission.”

The Soldier looks worried. Terrified, actually. Clint understands. He feels the same way. “But I—”

There’s thumping footsteps in the hallway, and shouted orders. Clint shakes his head. “We don’t have time for it, buddy. I’m going this way, you go out the window. Go!”

The Soldier reaches out, wrapping his metal fist in Clint’s shirt. “What—” Clint starts, but that’s all he gets out before he’s yanked forward into a kiss, hot and heavy and desperate. Time seems to slow around them, the shouts outside suddenly fading away. There’s a roaring in his ears, a rush of adrenaline through his veins. A heart-stopping intensity heightened by the way the Soldier’s other hand wraps around him, pulling him even closer.

They break apart, and Clint stares at him, stunned. “I…”

“Don’t you dare miss that train,” the Soldier orders, voice low, He tugs the bag off Clint’s shoulder and puts it on his own, then turns and jumps out the window, shattering the glass with ease. There’s screaming below, and shouting voices. No gunshots.

Behind him, there’s a thumping noise, and somebody yells, “Back up!”

Clint shakes off the surprise and leaps into action. He yanks open the connecting door and darts through. There’s a surprised yell from a naked couple on the other side. “Sorry!” he says, tearing through their room to the—

There’s no other connecting door. Just a wall. Clint barrels full-blast into it and bounces off, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. “Ow, _fuck_ —”

The guy yells something in Romanian, getting up from the bed. Clint scrambles to his feet and points the gun at him, looking around frantically. He’d assumed there’d be more doors to go through, or at least somewhere to hide, but there’s nothing. Not unless he wants to take his chances in the hallway. “Okay. Both of you, get in the bathroom. Right now. Don’t come out.”

The woman starts to say something. Clint levels the gun at her and points at the bathroom with the other hand. His finger is nowhere near the trigger, but they don’t appear to notice that. The man goes pale, and he quickly pulls the woman out of the bed and into the bathroom. As soon as the door closes behind them, Clint looks around and catalogues options. Hallway. _No good, they’re out there._ Window. _You’re not enhanced, you’ll break something._ Hide somewhere. _There’s nowhere to hide._

“How the hell do you manage to get into this shit?” he mutters, checking the clip and preparing himself for a fight. Then he moves next to the door and takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The door crashes open, and he barely manages to stop it from smashing into his nose before catching it on the rebound and pulling it towards him. No one seems to notice. “Spread out,” he hears someone say. “He’s around here somewhere.”

“One of them went out the window.”

“Probably the Asset. Jensen is on it.”

Clint holds very still behind the door, feeling like a kid playing hide-and-seek. He’s not completely covered here, but it’s enough that they haven’t seen him yet. Maybe if he stays here, he can—

A terrified scream splits the air, and he moves enough to see the couple being dragged out of the bathroom by two agents. He can’t understand what they’re saying, but he can get the gist of it. _Fuck fuck this is my fault gotta do something do anything._

He steps out from behind the door and fires three shots. Hits them all in the head, point blank. He doesn’t need a repeat of _that_ lesson. The couple scream again as blood sprays across them, and Clint darts forward as the bodies hit the floor. “Come on, get up, get _up_.” He grabs the woman’s arm and hauls her back into the bathroom. The man hurries after her. “In here. Stay.”

“That’s touching,” drawls a voice behind him. “You always did care about the little guys.”

Clint whips around, but Rollins is across the room before he can get his gun up again, fingers closing around his wrist in a painful grip. It spasms open and the gun drops. Rollins kicks it away easily. Clint swears loudly and twists, managing to break the grip and spin so his back isn’t against the wall. “What the fuck are you doing here, Rollins?”

“Getting _you_ ,” Rollins says. “Someone back home misses you.”

“You can tell Rumlow to go to hell,” Clint says, backing up. He spots the gun by the bed, but before he can move for it, Rollins darts into his space again. He’s _quick_ for such a big guy. Clint always manages to forget that. “Or somewhere worse.” He ducks a punch. “Feel free to be creative.”

“I already did,” Rollins says, laughing as he advances. “But I’ll tell him you said so too.”

Clint stumbles as Rollins lands a fist in his gut. “I’m not going back.”

“You don’t have a choice.” He shoves Clint backwards, knocking him onto the bed. “I’m sick of listening to him bitch about you.”

Clint wheezes out a laugh and scrambles backwards on the bed. “Put a bullet in his head, then, and save us both some trouble.” He gets his feet under him and looks around. _Weapons, weapons, what can I use—_

“Tempting,” Rollins says, before Clint throws a pillow in his face. He actually stumbles a bit at that, probably more from surprise than anything, but it’s enough. Clint jumps on the bed and launches himself forward, hitting Rollins with an NFL-worthy tackle. They land heavily on the floor, Rollins’s arms pinned under Clint’s knees. Clint punches him in the face, once, twice, three times, then reaches down and yanks the gun from his leg holster. He presses it against Rollins’s head and fires, but it clicks—

The door bursts open. Clint looks up as four more agents pour into the room. Immediately, he chucks the gun to the side and dives for his own. If they want to take him back, then they won’t be shooting to kill, which means he’s got the advantage.

His hand closes around it just as something yanks on his leg. “You little shit,” Rollins says through a bloody mouth, pulling him backwards. “Get back here.”

“Fuck off,” Clint grits out. He flips over and fires. Four shots, four bodies dropped, and then he aims at Rollins—

The gun clicks _again_ , and Clint looks at it. Out of bullets. _Goddamn_ _it_.

“Must be my lucky day,” Rollins says, sounding unconcerned about the fact that he almost just died twice in the span of a minute. He tightens his grip on Clint’s leg and pulls again, dragging him across the carpet. Clint snarls something incomprehensible and reverses his hold on the gun, then whacks Rollins across the head with it.

“You little—” Rollins starts again, but Clint scrambles to his feet and bolts out the door before he can finish it. There’s more agents out here, but they apparently weren’t expecting him to come out like that, because he’s already halfway down the stairs by the time any of them actually get moving. _Fucking morons. SHIELD would have been ready._

He vaults the railing of the last staircase and sprints out into the first floor hallway. No agents here, but he can hear the whine of police sirens outside, which is going to make things infinitely harder. _Next time, we’re both going out the window, broken legs or not._

“Gotta get out of this fucking hotel,” he mutters between breaths, ducking into a room with a label that he assumes means _Employees Only._ It’s a staircase going down, which isn’t exactly what he’s looking for. But when he cracks the door to go back, he sees a mass of Hydra agents swarming into the hallway.

One of them points at the door. “There!”

Clint immediately slams it shut and locks it, then goes down the stairs. It’s a laundry facility, dimly lit and full of giant machines that look more like they’re meant for maiming people than they are for anything else.

More importantly, it’s also full of places to vanish. Clint takes a precious second to scan the room, then opts for the ceiling. He can climb up that machine, jump to that one, then move that tile and—

There’s a pounding noise at the door and he gets to it. He’s barely got the tile back into place when the door explodes off its hinges. Clint carefully drags himself over to a vent and squints through it, trying not to cough at the dust he stirs up.

“Fan out,” he hears Rollins order. “He’s hiding somewhere.”

Clint holds as still as he can and watches, but no one looks up. At least, not that he can see.

Rollins crosses his arms and leans against the railing. “Just come out, Barton,” he calls loudly. “You’re only making it worse for yourself. And for your boyfriend, when we catch him.” He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “We’ve got all kinds of things we can do to you, sweetheart. What happened to you before was barely scraping the surface.”

Clint shudders hard at _sweetheart,_ then freezes as some dust falls through the vent. Luckily, Rollins is lighting his cigarette and doesn’t seem to notice.

“I mean, we can’t hurt you _too_ badly. Rumlow was pretty insistent you come back in one piece.” He takes a long drag, then blows out a puff of smoke. The acrid smell of it trickles up though the vent. “Between you and me, I think he misses you. You hurt his feelings, you know. Shooting him like that? That was cold. I respect it, but it was cold.”

_He fucking deserved it, and I should’ve aimed for his goddamn head._

“I’ll make you a deal. You come out and tell us where your boyfriend is, and we’ll go easy on both of you. Won’t even touch you.”

_Right. Heard that one before._

“You know he doesn’t care about you, right? You guys aren’t friends. You’re just a mission to him.”

“What?”

The word is whispered, but it slips out, and Clint immediately clamps his mouth shut. _Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up…_

Brennan looks up, eyes narrowing, but Rollins doesn’t. Just takes another puff on his cigarette. “It’s true,” he continues. “The Asset follows orders. The last order Rumlow gave him was to protect you. So all this?” He waves a hand around. “All the shit you guys have been pulling? That’s just him doing his mission. You’re not anything to him beyond that. So if this is all some half-baked plan to keep him safe, you can give it up. You don’t mean shit to him.”

_That’s not…_ Clint thinks about the protective way the Soldier has been acting. How he doesn’t like letting Clint do things alone, or keeps putting himself between Clint and other people. _Is that it?_ _Am I really just a mission to him?_

He remembers what the Soldier had said in the plane, when Clint had asked why he was helping. _“I like how you fight. I thought maybe if I was around you I would remember what it was like.”_ And there’d been the kiss just now, and the one before that, and holding hands in the plane—

_That all has to mean something, right?_

Clint shoves his doubts to the side. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he’s a mission or just a friend or something more. They’re in this together. He isn’t coming out, and if they find him, he sure as fuck isn’t giving up Nat’s only other chance of getting out.

“No sign of him,” someone says to Rollins, and Rollins curses softly. “We’ll double check.”

Next to him, Brennan is still looking up at the ceiling. Their eyes meet through the vent, although Clint’s pretty sure he can’t see him. Still, adrenaline dumps into his veins and he tightens his hold on the useless gun. _Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t…_

“Gonna look in the ceiling,” Brennan says, and Clint’s heart sinks. “Fucker likes heights, remember?”

Rollins snorts. “Have at it. I’m too old to climb this shit.”

There’s nothing he can do. There’s nowhere to hide. If Brennan sees him and calls it in, the only thing Clint can do is force them to _drag_ him out. Which he’s not above doing, really. He doesn’t care how petty it is; he will never, ever willingly walk back to Rumlow.

Brennan climbs up on the machines and Clint searches for a way out. There isn’t one, but he looks anyway, hyperaware of Brennan banging and scraping his way up. Then there’s the grind of a tile being moved, and a groan as he straightens up the rest of the way.

He flicks on a flashlight and moves it around. Clint just stays still, hoping against hope Brennan will think he’s just a part of the ceiling or—

The light flicks over his face. They stare at each other for a moment, the two of them. Clint is barely breathing, every muscle tense with the possibility of a fight.

Then Brennan puts a finger to his lips and mouths _stay here._ He turns around, pretending to sweep the rest of it. “All clear,” he calls back down, and ducks out without looking at Clint again. “Fuck, it’s dusty up there.”

“Rollins!” another agent calls.

“Yeah, what?”

“There’s a back door over here. Some kind of loading ramp. Lock’s busted. He’s long gone.”

Rollins drops his cigarette on the floor. “Shit.” He stomps it out. “Alright. Call HQ. Let’s start pulling some surveillance. No way he got far.”

“I liked your speech,” one of the the other agents offers.

Rollins lays him out with a single punch and steps over him. “Where’s this damn door?”

They slowly trickle out of the room, the hum of conversation trickling away until there’s nothing but quiet left behind. Clint lets out a long breath and drops his forehead onto the tile, fighting the urge to either cheer or cry. He doesn’t know if that was kindness or pity or the remnants of a friendship from Brennan, but either way, he’ll take it. That could have very easily gone another way.

He shifts enough to dig the phone out of his pocket and turns it on, checking the time. There are no messages—not that he really expected any. He’s not even sure if the Soldier knows _how_ to text. Still, he can’t help the swell of worry. Whether Clint’s just a mission or not, whether there’s something between them or not, he still wants the Soldier to be okay.

_Don’t you fucking miss that train either,_ he thinks, settling down to wait. _I don’t want to do this alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to an influx of other projects, I'm going to be slowing my posting schedule on this to Fridays only, instead of Fridays/Mondays. Should I get to a point where I feel like I can devote more time, I'll pick it back up again. Just letting you all know. Hope you're staying healthy and safe!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s still a couple of police cars out in front of the hotel. Clint looks around the corner, then pulls his jacket a little tighter and slips away in the opposite direction, melding into the crowd. _Okay. Back to the usual tricks._ He pushes away the terror, his worry for the Soldier, and tries to focus on what he’s doing.
> 
> He steals a baseball cap from a street vendor, and a book and a pair of sunglasses from another. At a small cafe he buys a coffee and sits at a table outside, back to the wall and eyes constantly searching under the glasses. _Be casual. This is normal. You’re just a guy sitting outside, reading a book. Hiding in plain sight. Just be causal. ___

Part of him wants to stay in the ceiling forever, or at least until it’s time to go, but the dust situation really is awful. His whole throat feels coated with it and it’s hard to breathe. So he only stays up there for an hour, listening intently the whole time. As soon as the hour is up, he carefully reaches out and moves one of the ceiling tiles. Just enough to see. He wouldn’t put it past Rollins to be sitting just out of sight, waiting.

When he doesn’t see anybody, he moves the tile a little more to widen the gap and peeks through.

Nothing.

“Okay,” he mutters, and moves it enough to poke his whole head out.

Still nothing. He’s alone.

Clint nods tiredly and scoots forward, tucking the gun into his pocket before carefully flipping his way out of the ceiling. He hits the floor in a shower of dust and sneezes a couple times, the sound loud in the silent room. “Ugh. Gross.”

He brushes himself off and gets to his feet, deciding it’s not worth it to try and put the ceiling tile back. Once he’s relatively dust free, he looks around and finds the back door. He slowly pushes it open, not really sure what to expect. Someone to jump out and grab him? Rollins to pop out and yell “ _Surprise!”_?

But no one’s there. Clint pushes the door a little more, then carefully steps out. It is some kind of loading dock, with a ramp that leads up towards the street. He shields his eyes from the fading sunlight and looks around. Still empty.

“Don’t like this,” he mutters, and starts walking up the ramp. “Don’t like this at all.”

There’s no one at the top of the ramp either, or in the alleyway, and all it does it put him further on edge. He clenches his fist and keeps his eyes up. _Stay away from cameras. Scan the crowd. Find somewhere in plain sight to hide._

There’s still a couple of police cars out in front of the hotel. Clint looks around the corner, then pulls his jacket a little tighter and slips away in the opposite direction, melding into the crowd. _Okay. Back to the usual tricks._ He pushes away the terror, his worry for the Soldier, and tries to focus on what he’s doing.

He steals a baseball cap from a street vendor, and a book and a pair of sunglasses from another. At a small cafe he buys a coffee and sits at a table outside, back to the wall and eyes constantly searching under the glasses. _Be casual. This is normal. You’re just a guy sitting outside, reading a book. Hiding in plain sight. Just be causal._

This is insane. He’s been on so many dangerous ops before, and he’s never, _ever_ been this keyed up about any of them. And there’s no reason for him to be. Rollins is just another bad guy in a long line of them. There is nothing special about him. Nothing special about any of them.

Clint tells himself that every time he turns a page. After a half hour, he’s still not sure if he believes it or not.

He turns another, then nearly jumps out of his skin as someone taps his shoulder. “ _Scuzați_ ,” says a young woman. A teenager, practically, or just barely out of it. She smiles at him. There’s a baby propped on her hip, and another kid hanging on her arm.

“Hi,” Clint says, looking up at her. He’s pretty sure she’s not Hydra, but he’s not sure what lengths they’ll stoop to in order to find him. It’s possible that they’d recruit kids. He wouldn’t put it past them.

She says something in Romanian. When he shrugs helplessly at her, she smiles again and switches to English. “May we sit with you? The other tables are full.”

He looks around. She’s right. “Yeah, sure.”

“ _Mulţumesc_.” She tugs the kid off her arm and directs him to a chair, and props the baby on her lap. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Clint scans the street, wary of any surprises. But all that happens is the girl drops a bag of pastries on the table and pulls one out, handing it to the little boy with a stern set of words. He takes it and starts eating, curious grey eyes fixed on Clint. 

“We won’t take long,” she says. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Take all the time you need,” Clint tells her. If they’re not Hydra, then they’ll make a good cover, at least. 

“I’m Cristina,” she says. “These are Andrei and Marius.”

“John.” 

In her lap, Andrei starts playing with her hair. She pulls it from his fat little fist and tosses it over her shoulder. “What are you reading?”

“Huh?” He turns the book over to see the cover. He hadn’t even looked at it, he’d just slipped it into his pocket while walking past. It’s not even in English. “I don’t know.”

“Must not be very good.”

“Couldn’t tell you.” He closes it and sets it on the table. “These your kids, then?”

“My brothers.” She reaches out and wipes a smear of jam from Marius’s face. “We’re waiting for our parents. This one got hungry.”

Clint tries for a smile. “Kids do that.”

“Yes.”

At the intersection, the light turns red, and a mass of people cross the street. Clint scans them quickly. His breath catches when he sees Rollins and another agent walking his direction. They both look pissed as hell. Clint clenches his fist under the table and tries to take a deep breath. _Stay calm, stay calm._ He’s already working out a plan of where to go if they see him. _Jump this table, shove that umbrella at them, disappear into the crowd. Try and get on a bus or something—_

Cristina is looking at him oddly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says tightly. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”

Rollins steps onto the sidewalk and stops, barely twenty yards from where Clint is silently panicking. He says something to the agent next to him. Then he turns and scans the general area. 

On Cristina’s lap, Andrei suddenly lurches forward, slipping out of her grip. “Andrei!” she gasps, reaching for him. 

Clint reaches out automatically, catching him before he can hit his head on the ground. “I got him,” he says, lifting him up to his own lap and settling him on his knee. He bounces the kid a little and keeps his eyes on Rollins, holding his breath as Rollins looks in his direction. _Just a guy with a baby and a family, it’s not what you’re looking for. Move on._

Rollins’s gaze slides over him. Then he nudges the other agent and nods down the street, where there’s a guy sitting alone at a bus stop. The agent nods, and they start walking down that way. Clint lets out a little sigh of relief. 

“Be careful,” he says to Andrei, handing him back to Cristina. “Don’t want to hit your head.”

She takes him with a grateful look. “Thank you, John.”

“Sure.” Clint’s hands are shaking. He takes a sip of his coffee and just barely manages to avoid spilling it. “Hey, you live around here, right? Or know the area?”

“Yes.”

He nudges the book. “If I wanted a quiet place to get away from people, where would you recommend?”

She thinks for a moment, then says, “There’s a bookshop not far from here. Will that do?”

“That would be perfect,” Clint says. “Where is it?”

“My parents will be picking us up there. You can walk with us. I’ll show you.” 

“Even better.” He smiles at her. “You’d be doing me a _huge_ favor. You have no idea.”

They get up. Marius, despite his previous uncertainty, insists on holding Clint’s hand. Clint’s not really comfortable around children, but he swallows it down in the name of maintaining his impromptu cover. Cristina just shakes her head fondly and mutters something in Romanian.

The bookshop is less than a mile from the cafe, but Clint will take any distance between himself and Rollins at this point. He smiles at Cristina, and pries Marius off his hand. “Appreciate it,” he says, kissing her cheek. _Just a man saying goodbye to his family, that’s all you are._

“You’re welcome,” she says, and he disappears into the bookshop as fast as he can casually get away with. 

The bookshop is cute, really. It’s the kind of place Nat would like, and Clint resolves immediately to bring her back here when this is all over. He’s not much of a reader, but she always has been, and he could totally see her getting lost among the shelves here. 

His heart twists a little as he thinks of the last time he saw her, way back when he’d made his last escape attempt. When they’d nailed her hand to the table with a knife. When they’d choked her with the rope over and over again, and she’d passed out—

The surge of fury is almost overwhelming, and he has to grip a nearby shelf to ground himself back into the moment. “You’ll get her out,” he whispers to himself. “You’ll get her out, you’ll be okay, and then you’ll come back here and buy all the books.”

He knows it’s probably a little naive to cling to that idea. It’s unlikely they’re all going to make it through unscathed, or even alive, but he’s got to believe in _something_. Clint is very aware of how his sanity is hanging by a thin thread these days. If he seriously stops to consider what’s probably going to happen, he’s going to lose his goddamn mind. 

On the third floor, tucked away in the back corner, is a little reading nook. There’s not much to it; it’s just a well-worn armchair and a lamp, really. Clint looks around, then picks a book at random and settles into the chair. It’s nice here, and quiet, and if he keeps to himself he can probably stay until closing. There’s a certain security to being lost among the books. Clint knows he’s not necessarily safe, but tucked away in this corner, surrounded by the smell of books and wooden shelves…he can’t help but feel at least a _little_ bit protected. 

He keeps an eye on the street through the window, and alternates between cat naps in the chair and security checks around the bookstore. The single employee on duty smiles at him every time she sees him, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. Clint eventually finds a section of English books and buys one at random, to help justify his longer stay. He tucks it into an inside pocket of his jacket and resolves to give it to Natasha as a very late birthday gift. 

He checks the phone again, but still no messages. _That doesn’t mean anything. You never agreed to message each other. He probably doesn’t even know how phones work._

Clint taps the phone against his hand, looking out at the darkened street below. It’s almost ten, which means he still has two hours to kill before getting on the train. Two more hours to worry.

“Closing,” the shop girl says from behind him, and he turns to look at her. She offers an apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, and he clears out. 

As soon as he steps foot onto the street, his paranoia comes back in full force. He immediately gets out of sight, tucking himself into a nearby alley beside some trashcans. “Come on,” he mutters, feeling utterly ridiculous as he crouches there. “You’re a goddamn professional. Act like one.”

He pulls himself together after a few minutes and goes back onto the street. It’s too dark for the sunglasses, so he just tugs the brim of the baseball cap lower and sticks to the shadows. _Probably should figure out where the train station is. Maybe start walking that direction, at least._

Okay. Simple goals. He can do that. 

It takes him an hour or so to locate and walk to the station. He doubles back a few times, takes a couple random turns, and generally tries to stay out of sight. Also tries not to think about drones, or cameras, or any of the dozen ways Hydra could potentially track him now that they know he’s in the area.

The train station looks like what he remembers, right down to the various groups of grifters and taxi hustlers out front. Clint approaches from the side, doing his best not to make eye contact. Last time he and Nat were here, there’d been an…incident with a few of the cab drivers. He doesn’t remember the specifics, just that it had ended with Nat breaking some bones. It’s not likely they’ll recognize him, or that it’s even the same people, but he doesn’t want to risk anything. Not right now. 

Except going in from the side puts him in the path of a couple kids hanging by the edge of the station. Homeless, probably. One of them—a little dark-haired girl with wide eyes—hurries over to him, hand outstretched. 

She says something in Romanian. Clint offers her a slight smile and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, glancing up towards the station doors. There’s a couple guys hanging out by the far door. Clint can’t tell who they are, whether it’s Hydra or just regular people. Not that he’s even sure if he could tell, at this point. It’s not like they’re wearing _Hi, I’m a Nazi!_ name tags or anything.

Then again, with the way they’re too-casually monitoring the people walking in and out of the station…they’re probably Hydra. Makes sense, really. He’d have people here too if he was on the other side. 

“Goddamnit,” he mutters, and checks the phone. Forty-five minutes to midnight.

Another kid, this one a little older, steps up. He barks something in Romanian at the girl, then flashes a disarming smile at Clint. “Sorry,” he says. “My sister. She is hungry.”

The girl says something back and steps closer to Clint, eyes pleading. As he looks down at her, the back of his neck prickles. On instinct, he turns slightly to the side, reaching down and back, and his hand closes around the thin wrist of another girl. 

Clint grins at her. “Sorry,” he says, pulling her hand from his jacket pocket. “Former circus brat. I know that trick.” He tugs the train ticket out of the kid’s hand and puts it back. “Nice try, though.”

They all look disappointed, the three of them, and Clint bites back a laugh. This is familiar territory. He remembers what it was like to be them, once upon a time. Cold and starving and very willing to trick strangers for money. He and Barney used to pull this shit all the time. Clint would play the distraction—people were always a sucker for a little blond-haired, blue-eyed kid—and Barney would pick their pockets. They had it down to a science. 

“Hey,” he says to the oldest one, suddenly getting an idea. “Come here.”

Warily, the kid follows him. Clint leads him around the corner, out of sight of the main doors. He looks around, then reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the roll of bills. 

“See this?” The kid’s eyes go wide. “I will give you…” He peels off a good chunk of them. “All of this.” The kid reaches for it, and Clint pulls it away. “Nope. Not yet. I need you to do something for me first.”

“What?” The word is surly and distrustful, but Clint can see the want shining in his eyes. 

“It’s easy,” he says. “See those guys out front? The ones by the door over there?”

“Yes.”

“I want you and your friends to distract them for me. Just long enough for me to get inside.”

“Why?”

“That’s not your problem. Can you do it or not?” 

The kid looks around the corner. “More money.”

“No way. This is plenty.”

“More money,” the kid says stubbornly. 

“No.”

“Then no deal.” He starts to walk away.

Clint rolls his eyes and grabs the kid’s arm. “Christ. Fine.” He peels off more bills. “There, you little grifter.” 

“Thank you,” the kid says, grabbing the bills. 

“Hey.” Clint pokes him in the chest. “A good distraction, you hear me? For that much money, I should be able to bring a fucking marching band in there with me and not be noticed.”

The kid rolls his eyes and waves his friends over. Clint keeps a close eye on them as they have a short, intense discussion in Romanian. Then the kid turns to him. “Okay,” he says. “We distract.”

Clint watches from the corner as they get to it. The little girl goes in first, the one who tried to pickpocket him. She gets up close to them, all wide-eyed and innocent, hand up for money. 

The guys look annoyed. “Get away,” one of them says, shoving at her. 

She rolls with it, falling to the ground with a dramatic tumble of limbs. Then she starts wailing, loud and clear. Instantly, the older kid appears, getting in their faces, shouting in Romanian. This draws the attention of some of the taxi drivers, and soon there’s a sizable crowd around the Hydra guys. 

“Good kids,” Clint says with a grin, and slips past them into the building. 

He’s greeted by a wide, mostly empty hallway, which immediately puts all his senses on alert. Good for visibility purposes, bad for disappearing. He slows his walk, keeps it casual, keeps scanning for danger. Nothing he can do about cameras, so he just tucks his head down and hopes for the best.

He walks past a long string of businesses, forcing himself to ignore the smell of coffee coming the nearby McDonalds. _You can get coffee when you’re on the train, away from these assholes._

Clint doesn’t see the Soldier anywhere. Not that he was expecting to, but it doesn’t help the worry gnawing at him. He checks his phone again—half an hour to midnight, he really should get on the train—and keeps heading towards the departure area. There’s not very much in the way of security. It’s pretty open, no metal detectors in sight. Not that he’s carrying a lot, but he’d really rather not ditch his gun if he doesn’t have to. There’s more ammo in the bag; he can reload once he meets up with the Soldier. 

Clint studies the list of departures on the wall. He doesn’t know Romanian, but it’s pretty similar to Italian, so he manages to parse his way through it. He finds his train, makes a note of the track, and turns to go.

Something jabs into his side. He immediately identifies it as a gun, going deathly still at the touch of it. Adrenaline dumps into his veins, turning every sense up to eleven, and his thundering pulse nearly muffles the, “You fucking _idiot_ ,” muttered behind him. The assailant grabs his elbow, jams the gun into his spine, and pulls him off to the side. 

He’s dragged through a door into what looks like a janitor’s closet. Mops, buckets, some other cleaning supplies are visible with the spill of light from the hallway. His unknown assailant closes the door behind them, plunging them into darkness for a brief moment. Then a light flickers on. Clint yanks his arm free and spins around, throwing a punch—

Brennan blocks it and shoves his arm aside. “Knock it off,” he hisses, sticking the gun back in his holster. “You goddamn idiot. What the hell are you even doing here?”

“Ordering a pizza,” Clint snaps, relief making his knees weak for a moment. “What the fuck does it look like, Brennan? I’m trying to get out of the city.”

“So why not steal a car? Why risk coming here?”

_Because I promised someone I’d meet him on a train like I’m in a goddamn rom-com?_ “I’ve got my reasons.”

Brennan shakes his head. “There’s people all over this station, Barton. Out front, in the hallway, down on the metro side. You’re lucky that I found you first.”

“Been that kind of day,” Clint says. “Do they know I’m here?”

“No. We’ve got people covering everything you and the Asset might take to get out of the city.” He shakes his head again. “Hell of an operation, really. But I knew you would come here, so I volunteered for this detail.”

“How’d you know?”

“Checked the computer in the hotel.”

“I cleared the history.”

“I’m good with computers.” He looks over his shoulder at the door. “This was really fucking stupid, Barton.”

“Christ, Brennan. Are you going to do something useful, or are you just here to tell me how dumb I am?”

Brennan rolls his eyes. “Both, apparently.” He tenses as footsteps walk by the door outside. But no one comes in, and after a moment he lets out a long breath. “Okay. You’re going for Romanoff, right?”

“Sorry, that’s a trade secret,” Clint says, like it’s even realistic that he was ever going to do anything else. 

“You realize that’s also fucking stupid, right?”

“Yeah, well, apparently it’s the theme of the day.” 

Brennan rolls his eyes. “I forgot how annoying you can be.” He steps closer. “They know you’re going there, Barton. If you had any sense at all, you’d give her up and get the hell out of here for good. Just cut your losses and run. Don’t waste this chance.”

“Well, you and I both know I’m not going to do that, so don’t waste your breath.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard and accounted for.” Clint looks over his shoulder at the door. “Are you going to turn me in?”

“If I was going to do that, I would’ve done it in the hotel.” 

“Why didn’t you? Could’ve gotten a nice little Nazi promotion, probably.”

Brennan looks offended at that. “I’m not a Nazi, Barton.”

“I’m sorry, did I hurt your feelings? You’re sure hanging around with Nazis, you can see how it’d be easy to assume—”

“Christ, can you shut your mouth for two seconds? I didn’t have a choice, okay?” His voice takes on a pleading tone. “They know my family, Barton. They didn’t outright threaten, but they made the consequences of _not_ joining pretty clear.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Hydra,” Clint says tiredly, but he’s somewhat relieved to hear that. He feels bad for Brennan and his family, but it’s nice to know that at least one person from his previous life isn’t a complete and total scumbag. He’d been wondering.

“I’m just trying to make the best of it. You can’t fault me for that.” He suddenly holds up a hand, then presses a finger to his ear and turns away. “Yeah, I’m here. Thought I saw something on the south platform. I’m just doing a perimeter sweep.”

“Rollins?” Clint asks, once he lets go.

“Yeah.” Brennan rubs a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “He’s pretty fired up about losing you in the hotel. Seems to take it as a personal slight.”

“Good. He and Rumlow can both go to hell.”

Brennan nods and gestures to the door. “Agreed. I’m going to go. Give me a minute to clear the area, then you can follow. Get on the train, try not to get noticed. I’ll do my best to draw their attention elsewhere but I can’t guarantee anything. And if they catch you…” He looks sick. “I can’t do anything. I won’t be able to help.”

“What about you?” Clint asks. “There’s cameras all over, won’t someone notice this?”

Brennan shakes his head, although he doesn’t look entirely sure. “Winslow’s on security camera detail. He’ll text me if there’s danger. He’s like me, you know. We’re just trying to stay alive.” 

“Two friends,” Clint says, trying for a smile. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky you,” Brennan echoes with a snort. “One more time for good measure—you’re a fucking idiot for coming here.”

That gets a real smile out of him. “Duly noted. Just give me a shot, Brennan. That’s all I need.” 

“If they catch you…” he starts again, still looking sick. “My family…you can’t…”

“I won’t say anything,” Clint promises. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep it, but he knows he needs to say it.

Brennan doesn’t look reassured, but he nods. “There’s something you should know, by the way. I’m not cleared for anything around the Asset, but I’ve overheard Rollins talking about ways to take him down. Something about embedded code words. I don’t know what that means, but they’re pretty confident it’ll stop him. So just be aware.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, a little alarmed at the thought. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Brennan steps around him and puts a hand on the door. He hesitates, then turns back to Clint. “You’re a good agent, Barton. I always thought what Rumlow did to you was fucked up. And I’m not the only one, either.”

Clint thinks about all of the people who came to have a turn with him, and he can’t stop the bitterness from leaking into his voice. “Sure as fuck felt otherwise.”

“I know,” Brennan says. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I never stepped in.”

Clint nods. “Help me out here, and we’ll call it even?”

“I can do that.” Brennan turns back to the door. “One minute. Good luck, Barton.”

“You too.”

Brennan disappears out the door. Clint watches the door close, trying not to think about what Natasha would say if she could see him right now. He knows it’s stupid to be trusting Brennan for anything, but the guy has a point—he could have turned Clint in twice over now, and he didn’t. 

Unless he did, and there’s now an army of Hydra agents waiting outside the door. Just waiting for him to step out, thinking he’s safe. 

His paranoia kicks back up in full force, and his hands start shaking again. “Stop it,” he says, voice loud in the darkness of the closet. “Come on, Hawkeye.”

Thirty seconds to go. 

The anxiety builds in his chest, real and raw, clawing its way up his throat like a scream. “ _Stop_ it,” he hisses again, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “Get it together, come _on_.”

Twenty seconds. 

_Breathe, Clint_ , he hears Natasha say. _They’re either out there, or they’re not. Only way to find out is by opening the door._

She’d said that to him on a mission. It had been like this, almost to a T—they’d been trapped in a small room, limited on resources, unable to see what was on the other side of the door. 

They’d come out alive, that time. Battered and bruised, but alive. They’d made it through. 

“Okay,” Clint mutters, and puts his hand on the door. 

Ten seconds. 

This is just the same thing. The same moment, repeated years later.

Five. Four.

_They’re either out there, or they’re not._

Three. Two.

_Only way to find out is by opening the door._

One. 

He opens the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was following a prompt the other day and ended up writing [Fury's Sleep-away Camp For Spies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004128), which features a slightly more consensual (still fucked up) encounter between Clint and Rumlow, long before this story takes place. Anyway, there were a lot of similarities between this story and that one, so following some mild editing to this story (mostly in the beginning), those fics are now part of the same universe. 
> 
> Also if anyone’s curious, the station he’s at is Gara de Nord, which is a real station in Bucharest. It’s not important that you know that but if you want to get a [better sense of what the station looks like,](https://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g294458-d7904776-i281488929-Gara_de_Nord_Bucharest_North_Train_Station-Bucharest.html) that’s what it’s called. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright,” he says. “But seriously. Don’t kill yourself over it. It’s just a name.”
> 
> “I want it back,” the Soldier says fiercely. “They took it, and I want it. It’s _mine._ ”
> 
> “They took a lot of things,” Clint says, and he’s surprised by the amount of hatred in his own voice. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it back.” He looks out the window. “All of it.”

There’s no one there.

Clint lets out a long breath and slips out of the closet, closing the door behind him. He allows himself one quick glance around, then walks towards the departure station. Casual, but steady. Twenty minutes until the train leaves. Plenty of time.

No one stops him. No one even looks twice at him.

Clint joins the line of people waiting to get on the train. He feels a little conspicuous without any luggage, but the tired faces around him don’t appear to notice too much. The conductor doesn’t even comment on it, just scans his ticket and waves him on board, directing him to the left. 

Clint gets on, following the instructions of the attendants as he walks through. It only takes him a couple minutes to get to the sleeper car. It’s not much to look at, really, but he’s traveled on worse. There’s two beds, one racked above the other, and a small indent in the opposite wall, which he guesses is supposed to function as a closet or storage space. There’s also a sink that doubles as a seat when covered, and a little cabinet above it that houses some spare toiletries and a mirror.

Clint pulls all the shades down and flicks the light on, then sits on the bed and taps his fingers on his knee. “Nothing to do but wait,” he says, and tries not to climb out of his skin with worry. He checks the phone again. _Fifteen minutes. He can still make it._

He paces all three steps that he can actually take in here, then kills some time by washing the remnants of dust out of his hair and brushing his teeth. People constantly walk past in the hallway, bumping into his door, making him jump every time. But no one knocks. No one pushes it open. No one says his name.

Clint chances a peek out the shade, but doesn’t see anyone he recognizes. Or anyone who looks suspicious. Or anyone with pretty blue eyes.

Too soon, a bell rings outside, loud and jarring. The train rumbles under his feet, and with a little jolt it starts to roll forward. Clint lets the momentum of it drop him onto the bed.

“Shit,” he says, staring at the opposite wall.

_He didn’t make it._

Which Clint _knew_ was a possibility. They both did. But he hasn’t really let himself think about it very much. He’s been pushing it out of his mind as much as possible, because really—

He has no idea how he’s going to do this alone.

“Shit,” he says again, and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay. You can do this.”

It’s a full day’s ride to Kiev. Slower than he’d really like, but it’ll give him adequate time to come up with a plan, at least. He’s not planning on being in Kiev any longer than it takes to get whatever Fury left for them, and then it’s off to rescue Nat.

With no backup. And probably limited weapons. And about a one percent chance of actually succeeding.

“Your life sucks,” he says. “Like, so much.”

Something bangs on the door, then. Someone knocking. Clint jumps to his feet and pulls the gun out. It’s empty, but he can always try and bluff his way out if he needs to—

“It’s just me,” says a familiar voice, and Clint’s knees almost buckle in relief. “Don’t shoot me. If you’re in there.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. The word comes out as a whisper, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. I’m here.”

The door opens, and the Soldier awkwardly squeezes himself into the tiny compartment. “You’re okay,” the Soldier says, looking equally relieved to see him. He drops the backpack on the floor.

“You made it,” Clint says. Then he stumbles and sits back down, transfixed by the utterly _jaw-dropping_ sight in front of him. “You...”

The Soldier notes Clint’s expression, and the relief gives way to concern. “You _are_ okay, right?”

“Your _hair_ ,” Clint finally gets out, staring at him. Gone is the semi-greasy, chin length cut. It’s not military short, it’s still long enough to get fingers into; but it’s definitely cut back, and there’s a little chunk flopped down over his forehead that Clint wants to brush away. He’s clean-shaven too, and the entire look just makes him appear years younger. “You did that yourself?”

The Soldier reaches up and rubs a hand through it, looking suddenly self conscious. “Yes,” he says. “Is it okay?”

“Uh...” Clint says, a little lost for words. It’s more than okay. Okay doesn’t even begin to do it justice. He thought the Soldier was attractive before, but this puts him squarely in the ‘ _holy fucking shit’_ category. It’s almost _unfair_ how good he looks from nothing more than a shave and a haircut.

“I couldn’t really see what I was doing,” the Soldier says. “It probably needs to be fixed.” When Clint still doesn’t say anything, he frowns and rubs a hand through it. “You don’t like it.”

“I love it,” Clint blurts out. “You look hot as fuck.”

The Soldier blinks, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clint says honestly, because the words are out there, and he’s sure as hell not going to take them back. Not with that smile. “Seriously. I can’t believe you did this yourself.” He can see a couple spots where it needs to be cleaned up, but honestly, the guy did a good job for doing it on his own. “Is that what you did? Holed up somewhere and played beauty shop?”

“I thought it would help. You said we needed to look different.” The Soldier looks down at his clothes, which Clint suddenly realizes are different than the ones he was wearing before.

“Where’d you do all this? Did you break into someone’s house or something?”

“Yes.” He looks slightly ashamed about this, and his tone gets defensive. “I left them money. And a note.”

Clint grins. “Easy, buddy. I’m not judging your choices.” He reaches up and brushes through his own hair. “Think you could cut mine? I haven’t had one since before all this shit started.”

He’d brought it up to Rumlow once, a month or so after everything had happened. It had been a weekend, and Rumlow had walked in on him searching through drawers in the bathroom.

_“What are you looking for, sweetheart?”_

_“Clippers,” Clint says, not looking at him. “Or scissors, or something.”_

_“Sounds dangerous.”_

_“Not for you, asshole. I want to cut my hair.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because it’s annoying me, and I—” he cuts off as Rumlow’s hand winds into his hair, gripping and pulling his head backwards. “Hey!”_

_“I like it,” Rumlow says, a smirk playing over his mouth. “You’re not cutting it.”_

_“It’s my damn hair, Rumlow, why the fuck—”_

_Rumlow’s grip tightens, and that’s the only warning Clint gets before his head is slammed into the sink. He bounces off with a sharp cry, falling to the bathroom floor as Rumlow lets go. “I said no,” he tells Clint, watching impassively as Clint presses a hand to his head. It comes away bloody. “Do we need to have a discussion beyond that?”_

_“No,” Clint says, swallowing down his fury. It’s not worth the argument. It’s just hair._

_“Good boy. Clean the floor, you’re getting blood everywhere.”_

Clint shoves the memory away and drops his hand. “If you don’t mind,” he says. “I just want it shorter. I can do it myself too, but it’s easier when someone else does it, you know?”

The Soldier shrugs. “Sure.” He puts his hand on the wall, looking uncomfortable in the cramped space of their cabin.

“Here,” Clint says, scooting over. “Come sit.” The Soldier sits next to him, and Clint has an insane urge to curl up in his arms. He makes himself keep a respectable distance. “I’m glad you’re here. I was...kind of freaking out.”

“So was I,” the Soldier says. “What tipped you off in the first place? How did you know Hydra was in the hotel?”

“Ran into Jack Rollins,” Clint says, and the Soldier looks alarmed at the name. “I know. I saw him when I was coming out of the computer room, and we had this little awkward moment. Then I booked it upstairs and told you.” He swallows, thinking about what had happened right after that. But the Soldier doesn’t bring up the kiss, so he doesn’t either. “We had a fight, I got away. Bounced around to a couple different places trying to keep out of sight.”

“Did you?”

“Mostly.” He hesitates for a moment, then tells him about Brennan, and the conversation they’d had in the station.

“That probably wasn’t smart,” the Soldier says. “Talking to him.”

“Probably not,” Clint agrees. “But I really don’t think he’s one of them, either. He could’ve given me away twice, and he didn’t. He helped me.” _Or he let me go, and just had Hydra follow us onto the train._

He shoves the thought away. They can’t plan for every possibility. Either Hydra is here, or they’re not, and Clint will just deal with it as it comes.

The Soldier still doesn’t look happy. “That doesn’t mean anything. You can’t trust any of them.”

“I don’t trust him. I’m not stupid. But I’m here, aren’t I? He could have easily gone and raised the alarm, and he didn’t.” He shrugs. “Anyway. Do you know what he meant? About the code words?”

The Soldier rubs his forehead. “I remember lights.”

“Lights,” Clint repeats, when it becomes clear he’s not going to elaborate. “That’s...not really helpful.” That gets him an irritated look. “What? It’s not.”

“I’ll try and remember,” the Soldier sighs. “If I can.” He waves at his head. “It hurts.”

Clint leans back in his chair. “Well. Don’t strain yourself. Anyone starts yelling words at you, we’ll just shoot them.”

He snorts. “I like that plan.”

Silence falls between them. Clint is dying to ask him about the kiss, about what Rollins said, but the Soldier already looks tense and he doesn’t really want to make it worse.

“Are you hungry?” he finally asks. “I think there’s a diner a few cars up. Could see if they have food. Get out of here for a bit.” He waves a hand around. “It’s a little cramped.”

“Yes,” the Soldier agrees, and stands up. “I am...hungry.”

“Look at you, being something besides functional.” Clint flashes him a flippant grin. “My boy’s growing up.”

“Shut up,” the Soldier says, but he smiles back. And yep, between that and the hair, and the now prominently-visible jawline...well, Clint’s not sure how he’s going to get anything done around this guy. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious about the way _he_ looks, and leads the way out of their cabin.

They make their way to the diner car, which is pretty much the sad selection of offerings Clint had expected for midnight travelers. But there’s more room to breathe, at least, so he picks a booth in the far corner by the bar and sits in it, letting the Soldier take the side closest to the wall.

There’s a few other people in here. Clint lets his gaze roam over them, brain automatically running threat assessments. Tired mother and teenager in the back, talking with a guy dressed in a uniform. Husband and wife one table down from them, literally everything about them screaming _rich Americans on vacation_. Single woman with a laptop, backpack strap firmly tucked around her arm. Employee at the end of the car, restocking a display case of questionable-looking, prepackaged food. A TV is tucked into the corner above his head, muted, but playing some kind of news.

Nobody looks like an immediate threat, and Clint feels the ever-present paranoia ease just slightly. “Think we’re good here,” he says, turning back to the Soldier.

“Yes,” the Soldier says, scanning the car. “It would seem so.”

Clint gets up and gets them a couple sandwiches each. “Eat,” he says, tossing them at the Soldier. “Eat, and then we both need to crash for a while. In shifts,” he adds, heading off the inevitable protest. “Like in the hotel. Hopefully without Hydra crashing the party this time. I really don’t want to hide in a ceiling again.”

“Next time you will come with me,” the Soldier says firmly. Protectively, really, and Clint is suddenly reminded of what Rollins said in the hotel.

_“All the shit you guys have been pulling? That’s just him doing his mission. You’re not anything to him beyond that.”_

Clint wants to ask if that’s true, but the words seem to stick in his throat, and he’s not even sure how to phrase it without sounding pathetic, or accusing. So he just tries for a smile and a noncommittal shrug. “Hopefully there isn’t a next time.”

“There will be,” the Soldier says grimly. “Hydra will not give up.”

“Cheery fella, aren’t you?” Clint shoves a sandwich at him. “Eat up, doom and gloom.”

“Don’t—”

“Call you that, I know.” He waves a hand. “I wouldn’t. It’s not one of my better ones, anyway.”

“Not really, no.” The Soldier’s mouth quirks in a smile, and Clint can’t help but return it.

They finish the sandwiches in silence. Clint sits back in the booth and taps his fingers on the table, casually keeping an eye on the rest of the diners. He should be making a plan, probably, but it’s too nice to just _sit_ for a second. Just sit and breathe and not deal with impending danger for once. 

The Soldier is staring out the window at the darkened landscape. Moonlight drags across his face and Clint suddenly wants to touch it, wants to smooth the worry out of those creases. Wants to brush that little bit of hair off his forehead and kiss him again—

“I think I have a name,” the Soldier says suddenly. He says it in a whisper, like he thinks someone will punish him for it. Which is probably a valid reaction.

“Most people do,” Clint says, absently drawing a pattern on the table in front of him, still semi-fixated on his face. 

The Soldier rolls his eyes. “No. From before.”

Clint nods and forces himself to actually listen. “Do you remember what it is?”

“No.”

“Do you know what it sounded like?”

“No.” The Soldier pauses, then adds, “It was...long. I don’t think I liked it.”

“I don’t suppose you know when you were born,” Clint says.

“Would that help?”

“Could narrow it down a little. Maybe it was popular.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Any clues at all? Any memories? Even random ones.”

Another pause, and then: “I remember a crowd. And a blond man. And a...” He winces, rubs his forehead. “A car?”

He looks pained, and Clint holds up a hand. “Hey. It’s alright. You don’t have to remember. We can pick a name or something for you. Or I can keep calling you nicknames.”

The Soldier nods, and focuses on the TV in the corner, his eyes narrowing slightly. Clint turns around to look at it. It’s still on the news. Romanian, but he can read some of the headlines scrolling across the bottom.

“Who is that?” the Soldier asks, gesturing to the TV. “That man.”

“Uh...that would be the U.S. president,” he says, watching the man step up to the podium. “There’s some kind of summit thing going on, maybe? I don’t know. I’ve been distracted.”

“The president,” the Soldier says. “I think...” He rubs his forehead again. “I think I was a president?”

“I’m pretty sure you weren’t,” Clint says. “Unless it was of an assassin’s club or something.” Offhandedly, he thinks that would actually be a cool club to be in. They could all hang out and discuss their best jobs while drinking overly expensive teas. _Like a gentlemen’s club, but more gender-inclusive and murdery._

“No,” the Soldier says. “I was...” He gestures irritably. “My name.”

“Oh, you were named after one?” Clint asks, abandoning thoughts of laying around in a fancy bathrobe. “Okay.” He tries to think. “Ah, my history isn’t very good. I don’t know a lot of them off the top of my head.”

The Soldier gives him an odd look. “Why not?”

“I never finished high school, okay? I joined the circus.” Clint taps his fingers on the table. “Okay. Well, we’ve got George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Harry Truman...” He tries to stick to older presidents, given the likely extensive years of history sitting in front of him. “Thomas Jefferson...uh...Miller Fillmer or something...is any of this ringing a bell?”

“No.”

“This is why the internet was invented,” Clint grouses. “If I had a decent phone, I could look this shit up in a heartbeat.”

That gets him a head tilt. “What is the internet?”

“You don’t know what the internet is?” Clint grins. “Boy, have I got some cat videos to show you.” He looks around, checking out their neighbors. “Here, let me see if I can borrow one.”

The Soldier starts to protest, but Clint is already leaning over to the couple across from them. “Hey,” he says, flashing his most charming smile. “Would either of you have a phone I could borrow real quick? Mine’s out of battery, and I just need to look something up real quick.”

The man adjusts his fancy watch, eyeing Clint in a way that harkens back to his circus days. That condescending, smarmy, _I’m too good to speak with you_ kind of look. Clint bites back his normal response to it and just keeps looking as nonthreatening as possible.

“What do you need it for,” the man finally says, a slight Southern accent to his words.

“Just to settle a bet,” Clint says, thumbing over his shoulder. “Trying to see who can name all the U.S. presidents.”

The man hesitates, but after a moment, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. “I suppose,” he says, and hands it over.

“Thank you.” Clint sits back in the booth, making sure to keep the phone in the guy’s sight. “Okay. Tell me if any of these sound familiar.”

He starts quietly reading from the list, watching out of the corner of his eye for any reaction. “George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson...”

The Soldier is motionless, listening intently as he goes down the list. Clint stumbles over Millard Fillmore, then gets through Franklin Pierce and James, “...Buckanan? Buch-nan?”

“Buchanan,” the Soldier says quietly. He’s wincing again, like he’s got a major headache.

“Buchanan?” Clint asks. “What, is that it?”

He feels like it might be. There’s something at the edges of his own memory, something he could put his finger on if he just gave it a moment...

“I don’t know,” the Soldier says. His gloved hand is clenched tightly on the table. “It’s not right. But it’s close? I can _feel_ it.” He shakes his head. “It _hurts_.”

Clint returns the guy’s phone and turns to face the Soldier. “Don’t stress about it too much,” he says, a little worried at how much wincing is going on. He’s also a little worried about the metal hand on the table. He can already see the dents. “The last thing I need is for you to give yourself a brain aneurysm over a name.” He smiles, tries for a little levity. “We’ve got a good thing going with the nicknames, yeah? I’ll just call you Sergeant Brooding von Scary Pants or something. We can look for your name later. When you’ve been away longer.”

The Soldier looks at him with an unreadable expression. Then with a hint of _are-you-serious-right-now_ in his voice, “Sergeant Brooding von _Scary Pants?_ ”

“Or something,” Clint says, grinning. “You are kind of terrifying, you know.”

“Do _not_ call me that,” the Soldier says, but the pain seems to be giving way to mild amusement. Clint lets out a little breath. “Ever.”

“How about Scary McScary Face?”

“No.”

“Dark and—"

“ _No_.” Brooding von Scary Pants gives his patented murder-glare and Clint stops.

“Alright,” he says. “But seriously. Don’t kill yourself over it. It’s just a name.”

“I want it back,” the Soldier says fiercely. “They took it, and I want it. It’s _mine_.”

“They took a lot of things,” Clint says, and he’s surprised by the amount of hatred in his own voice. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it back.” He looks out the window. “All of it.”

Silence lapses between them. Clint checks the time, counts down the hours until they hit Kiev. A day of travel on this train, and it’s still another ten, at _least_ , from there to the forest. Longer if they have to sit around and wait for another train. He can practically feel the weight of time pressing him down, along with the worry of whatever they’re doing to Natasha.

_“They’re torturing her.”_

_“That’s what they do.”_

Maybe she’s dead. Maybe she refused to be turned back into what they wanted, and they killed her. Or maybe she’s already done it herself. He doesn’t think Nat would do that, but he can never really be sure about her. She’s told him more than once that she would never willingly go back to the Red Room. Would never let anyone use her to cause destruction ever again.

She’d been their best. He doesn’t think they would kill her, or let her do it. Not if there was a chance to turn her back again. Maybe they were using the Chair like the Soldier mentioned. Or maybe they were trying to convince her to work with them, although he doesn’t know what leverage they could use to pull that trick. There isn’t much Natasha Romanoff cares about except—

_Fuck_ , he thinks, realization hitting him. _It’s me. I’m the leverage._

They’d taken videos of him too. Down in the cell, and at other times. Rumlow had showed him videos of Nat. Who’s to say they weren’t showing her videos of him?

“Goddamnit,” he mutters. He _hates_ being leverage. Especially hates the idea of Nat seeing him in that position.

_Family and friends make the best pressure points._

Well. Maybe if there’s no more videos of him, she’ll realize he’s out and make her own break for it or something. That’s always possible.

Next to him, the Soldier startles suddenly. “Sergeant,” he says. His eyes are wide.

“Huh?” Clint drags himself out of his thoughts.

“You called me Sergeant.”

“Yeah, so?”

The Soldier nods. “I was a sergeant.”

Clint sits up straighter. “You were? You remember?”

“No.” He clenches his fists. “But it sounds...right? I see war, when I sleep. And shouting. Explosions in a forest.” Another wince. “A man wearing blue.”

“Okay,” Clint says, trying not to focus on the more horrifying parts of that. “So you were a sergeant named after a president, possibly James Buchan—"

The words die in his mouth as understanding hits him like a freight train, and suddenly he feels _so fucking stupid_. He seriously needs to think about retiring after this shit, because intelligence is apparently not his thing.

He knows the general story of Captain America. It was hard to miss, in the days after he was defrosted. The legendary man himself, leader of the Howling Commandos, found still alive in the ice. Clint had never been a huge fan, but Coulson had been thrilled, and so Clint had heard _way_ more than he wanted to about Cap and his super special team. Certainly more than Cap ever told him. The man himself was tight-lipped about the war, particularly the Commandos, and Clint knew enough to recognize there was a tragedy involved he didn’t want to relive.

He’d mentioned it only once, after they’d gotten to know each other a bit. Clint had caught him staring at an old black and white picture. There were six men in the photograph, but Cap’s eyes were only fixed on one.

_Bucky_ _Barnes,_ Cap had said when Clint asked. _He was my best friend._

_What happened?_

_He died._

There had been no more discussion after that. Clint had filed the encounter away in the back of his mind and moved on. Cap didn’t want to talk about it, and Clint wasn’t the best person to push emotionally insecure ground.

He puts it all together now, feeling dumber by the minute. Cap’s best friend, a previous Hydra prisoner of war, who fell off a train in Germany, 1945. The fragmented super soldier sitting next to him, who has fifty plus years worth of assassinations credited to his name. The guy who’s been frozen on and off like a TV dinner for who knows how long.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, back from the dead.

The Soldier is staring at him. Clint lets out a shaky breath. “I know your name,” he says, meeting those gorgeous blue eyes. “Holy shit, I know your name. You’re _Bucky_.”

“Bucky,” the Soldier breathes, and his whole body seems to light up. “Yes. Someone called me that. A long time ago.”

“Bucky goddamn Barnes,” Clint says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. You and Cap both are here. That’s insane.”

The Soldier looks confused. “The...blond one? You mentioned him before.”

Clint leans back in his seat. “Yeah. Captain America. Steve Rogers. You guys were like, super best friends growing up. You joined the Army and got captured by Hydra, and he came to rescue you. Then you and some others formed this super awesome commando team, and went around Europe destroying Hydra bases.” He watches, unsure if this is too much information at once. He doesn’t want to blow the guy’s brain with knowledge or anything. It’s not like there’s a specific protocol for handling good-looking super soldiers with questionable memories and minor homicidal tendencies.

The Soldier shakes his head. “I don’t remember any of that,” he says. He presses both hands to his head. “They took that too. I don’t remember, I don’t—"

Clint grips both his wrists and pulls. “Stop it,” he says sharply. “Stop it, _now_. I know you don’t remember. We can figure it out. But I need you to not lose your shit on a train, okay? We gotta keep a low profile, or else we’re fucked.”

His hands sort of slide up the Soldier’s wrists until their fingers are tangled together. Clint winces as he squeezes, but doesn’t complain. After a moment, the grip relaxes. The Soldier pulls away and opens his eyes, laying his palms flat on the table. “Okay,” he says. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m...okay.” He swallows, then looks out the window. “I have a name,” he whispers, so quietly that Clint is pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear it. He says it again, carefully, like the words might melt in his mouth. “I have a _name_.”

Clint can’t help the smile that breaks over his face. “Yeah, Scary Pants,” he says. “You’ve got a name.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Clint Barton. It’s nice to officially meet you.”

The Soldier takes it. “I’m Bucky Goddamn Barnes,” he says, dead serious, and Clint bursts out laughing.

“Fuck yeah you are,” he says, feeling lighter than he has in days. “Glad to have you with me.”

“Me too,” the Soldier _—Bucky_ —says. “Of all the people...I’m really glad it was you.”

Clint’s chest suddenly feels tight with emotions he can’t name. “Yeah,” he manages, and squeezes Bucky’s hand. “I feel the same way.”

They look at each other, both of them grinning like a couple of idiots. Then Clint remembers his _no-touching rule_ , and starts to pull his hand away.

“No,” Bucky says, and his grip strengthens. “It’s okay.”

Clint looks down at their hands, then back up. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” He locks eyes with Clint. “I’m very, _very_ sure.”

“Good,” Clint says quietly, and he leaves his hand where it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Except there’s still something he needs to know, so after a while, he decides to suck it up and just ask. “Hey,” he says, rolling to the edge of the bed and poking his head over the side. “Can I ask you a question?”
> 
> “Yes,” Bucky says. He meets Clint’s eyes, calm and focused.
> 
> Clint taps his fingers on the bunk rail, concentrating on the pinging sound of his fingernails against the metal. Then he blurts out, “Why did you kiss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 7/19: ATTENTION EVERYONE THERE IS NOW [ART FOR THIS FIC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678105/chapters/62342503?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_330890194). The very talented [harishe-art](https://harishe-art.tumblr.com/) drew Bucky and Clint kissing on the train, and it is GORGEOUS and should be screamed about forever <3 Thank you so much! If y'all have a moment, please go check our their tumblr and reblog all the things, it's full of talent and beautiful artwork and you will enjoy every second of it <3

“I gotta ask you something,” Clint says sometime later.

Bucky glances at him. “What?”

“It’s about something Rollins said.” Clint rubs his chin, then says, “When I was hiding in the hotel. He said...” He trails off, unsure how to phrase it. Bucky waits patiently, a curious expression on his face.

“He said you do missions,” Clint continues after a moment. “Specifically, that you follow orders.”

The curiosity changes to confusion. “Yes?”

“And that the last order you got was to protect me. Remember that? Before we went into Bruce’s place, Rumlow told you to keep me safe.”

“Yes.”

Clint gestures between them. “So all of this, then. You and me, running away. Did you...”

“Did I what?”

“Did you come with because I asked you to, or were you just following orders?”

The question hangs in the air between them, somber and heavy. Across from him, Bucky goes very still.

Clint winces. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I mean, you’re here. It doesn’t matter either way. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Bucky doesn’t reply for a long moment, eyes fixed on the passing landscape outside the window. Then he rubs his forehead and says, “I don’t think so.”

“Meaning...”

“I wanted to come with.” He rubs his head again. “I think.”

“I didn’t mean---”

“No, I know.” Bucky sighs. “It’s hard to tell, sometimes. What’s them and what’s me. It’s possible you started as a mission, but now...” He looks at Clint. “ _I_ want to stay. _Me_.”

“Yeah?” Clint can’t hide the smile on his face.

“You’re a good person,” Bucky says. “I like you. I like being with you.”

He looks a little surprised at this admission, and Clint remembers what he’d said in the hotel about not being allowed to like stuff.

“Hey,” Clint says. “We should start that list.”

“A list?”

“Of things you like. Remember we said we’d write stuff down?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“ _Things Bucky Goddamn Barnes Likes_ ,” Clint says dramatically, and Bucky laughs. “So, so far we have mititei, and me.” He pauses, then adds, “Do we go in order of preference, or in the order you figured it out?”

“Either way, you’re at the top,” Bucky says with a shrug, and Clint’s stomach does a weird little flip-floppy kind of thing.

“Can’t write them down yet,” he says. “We’ll just have to remember.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They’re quiet for a while after that. They’re not holding hands anymore---they’d stopped once Clint got up to get more snacks for both of them---but Bucky’s left hand is still loosely resting on the table, and it’s very tempting to just reach out and take it.

He probably could. Bucky did give him the all-clear for it.

Clint reaches forward, but as he does, Bucky pulls his hand back. “We should probably sleep,” he says. “Like you said.”

Clint turns his reach forward into a grab for his empty coffee cup. “Good plan.”

Bucky gets up. “You can go first. It’s your turn.”

They go back to their little cabin. It’s still just as cramped and uncomfortable as it was before they left, both of them barely fitting into the space without standing on top of each other. “You know,” Clint says, “we could probably both sleep at the same time.”

“Someone should keep watch.”

“Think about it,” Clint says, eyeing Bucky’s broad shoulders. With a sigh, he hauls himself up to the top bunk and lays down. “It’s not like anyone can sneak in here. They either have to come through the door, in which case we’ll hear them, or they have to come through the window.” He points at it. “And we’re on a _moving_ train. If they’re dedicated enough to crawl through the fucking window, well… at that point, they can just have us.”

Bucky still doesn’t look convinced. “It would be safer---”

“You look like you’re gonna drop,” Clint says. “And I’m not exactly top of my game right now either. This is probably the last chance we’re going to get for a long time to get some uninterrupted sleep.” He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “Things are gonna happen fast after Kiev.”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees. “We should make a plan, probably.”

“Probably. But sleep first. Anything we come up with now is going to be shit because we’re tired.”

“That’s… fair.”

“I’m not saying we gotta sleep the whole time,” Clint says, awkwardly shrugging out of his jacket. He crams it under the thin pillow for extra support. “Just a few hours.”

Bucky still looks like he wants to disagree, but he doesn’t say anything. He just gets into the lower bunk, muttering something under his breath. There’s a few ominous creaks as the bunk shifts under his weight. Clint stifles a grin and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t have any nightmares, for once, just one of those nonsensical dreams that are rare for him these days. Something about chasing the other Avengers around empty city streets with a paintball gun. He’s enjoying it, lost in that weird in-between state where he knows he’s dreaming, but can’t really do anything about it. He’s just there to go along with the flow.

He’s taking aim at Steve, ready to color that blond hair with some obnoxiously bright pink paint when something grabs his leg and shakes it. Clint comes awake in an instant, sitting up and reaching for a weapon in a single motion, immediately on guard for whatever threat is near.

Except he’s only got about two feet of clearance to sit, so all he manages to accomplish is smacking his head on the ceiling hard enough to make his vision flash white. “Fuck!”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, somehow managing to look both amused and alarmed at the same time. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“’s fine,” Clint says, eyes watering. “What’s up?”

Bucky points outside. “Sun’s up.”

Clint blinks his vision clear, then rolls enough to peek out of the window shade. “Shit, what time is it?”

“After ten. You slept for almost eight hours.”

“Huh.” Been a long time since he’s done that. Rumlow was a late-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of guy, and Clint was forced to keep the same schedule. He hasn’t slept more than five or six hours in months. “That’s nice, I guess.” He narrows his eyes at Bucky. “And you?”

“I slept,” Bucky says, sounding a little defensive.

“How long?”

“I’m functional,” Bucky assures him.

Clint winces. “Buddy, we gotta have a chat about you and that word.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t like it. I don’t like you saying it.”

“But it’s---”

“It’s Hydra’s word, not yours.” Clint looks at him. “And I’m pretty sure that for you, they meant it like a weapon. If you were able to do the job, then you were functional. Am I right?”

Bucky is quiet for a moment, face thoughtful. Then he shrugs. “I suppose.”

“Okay. Well, you’re not a weapon. You’re a person. Which means you are allowed to do things like be tired, or hungry, or pissed off or whatever. Okay? So stop saying you’re functional, and tell me the truth: did you sleep enough?”

There’s an odd expression on Bucky’s face, like he’s not entirely sure what Clint’s talking about. But after a moment, he shakes his head. “I’m alright for now,” he says. “But I might try again later.”

“Okay, then.” Clint flops onto his back again and stares at the ceiling. “Not so hard, is it?”

“No,” comes the quiet answer, almost a full minute later. “Guess not.”

Clint keeps staring for a moment longer, then sighs and rolls over again. “Sorry,” he says. “That was...rude.”

“A little,” Bucky says, but there’s a hint of a smile to his voice. “You don’t like waking up, do you?”

Clint makes a vague grunting noise and waves a hand. “Mornings aren’t my thing,” he admits. “I need coffee.”

“I’ll get you some.” Bucky moves towards the door, then stops. He turns back towards Clint with a hint of worry on his face. It would be sweet, really, if Clint was more awake than he is now.

“I’m fine,” Clint grumbles, propping himself upright a little more. His head brushes the ceiling. “I’m just tired. Need caffeine.”

Bucky pauses again, then disappears out the door without another word. He comes back a few minutes later with two cups, passing one off to Clint. And it’s not like Clint was expecting gourmet coffee or anything, but even he winces when he tries it. “Ugh. That’s...foul.”

“It’s not good,” Bucky agrees, trying his own. He makes a face, then says, “Coffee doesn’t go on the list.”

“The list?” Clint thinks for a moment. “Oh! The list. Right. Well, no. This is crap. I will introduce you to good, fancy coffee. Tony buys the high-level shit. I used to steal it from him.” He grins, thinking of the increasingly ridiculous security measures Tony had implemented every time he found the coffee missing from his pantry. Child’s play to circumvent, but always hilarious to watch the results. “That’s the good stuff. This is just...depression in a cup.” He chugs it anyway, then holds out a hand. “Gonna drink yours?”

Bucky hands it over without a word, and Clint finishes his too. Then he stacks the cups together and tosses both into the trashcan by the door.

“Nice,” Bucky says, sitting on his bunk. “Good aim.”

“That’s my thing,” Clint says, scooting further down into the bed. “Now. Let’s talk strategy.”

“Are you awake enough for strategy?”

“Oh wow, look who’s finding a personality.” Clint leans over the side of the bunk in an awkward, half upside-down twist until he can see Bucky. “Charming fella, aren’t you? Yes, I’m awake enough for strategy.”

Bucky smirks a little, and Clint tries not to think about how much he wants to kiss it. “Anyway,” he continues, “How are we gonna do this?”

“First thing we need is guns,” Bucky says. “As many as we can carry.”

“I’ve got guns.” Clint waves a hand. “I have stashes all over Kiev; both Nat and I do. Non-SHIELD ones, so they should be safe. We operated there a lot, once upon a time, and we passed through frequently enough to need them. The weapons won’t be a problem.” He thinks longingly of one of the stashes, which contains a Barrett M95, four Berettas, and one of his favorite bows.

God, he wants a bow. Wants it so bad he can taste it. He hasn’t touched one in weeks. He’d had to convince Rumlow to even let him get near one in the first place.

_“Rumlow.”_

_The other man doesn’t look up. Just shuffles some papers to the side of his desk and says, “What?”_

_“I want...” Clint trails off, hoping to avoid the whole ‘can’t always get what you want’ bullshit. “I was wondering if I could go down to the range.”_

_Rumlow’s hands still, and he finally looks down to where Clint’s kneeling at his feet. Clint meets his eyes head-on. “Why?”_

_He shrugs one shoulder. “I just...I need to practice. Gonna get rusty, you know. Gotta keep my skills sharp.”_

_That cruel smile spreads across Rumlow’s face, and Clint forces his own to stay neutral. “Aw, sweetheart. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”_

_“It’s...” Clint closes his eyes, suddenly feeling on the verge of tears. It’s not fucking fair, is what it is. He just wants to shoot something. He just wants two minutes alone with his bow so he can feel like a person for once._

_He just wants a chance to remember what it was like to be something other than Rumlow’s goddamn dog._

_Rumlow’s hand slides along his face, soothing and gentle, and it takes everything Clint has not to lean into it. It’s not kindness, it’s_ not, _it’s a power play like every other goddamn thing he does._

_Except the last person to touch him like this was Nat, and Clint misses it so much it makes his chest ache. They weren’t together, but she wasn’t ever shy about curling up with him on the couch, or touching him as she walked past. Easy affection. He hadn’t realized how much he craved it until this happened, and it’s so hard not to accept this touch as a stand-in._

_He forces his eyes open, locks his feelings back in their box. “Please.”_

_The smile gets sharper. “I like it when you ask me nicely.”_

_“It works for both of us,” Clint says. “I get some practice time, you get to do whatever evil shit you do without me looking over your shoulder.”_

_Rumlow chuckles. “Funny.”_

_“I’m just saying.” Clint clamps his mouth shut, waits for the decision. He can’t let on how desperate he is for Rumlow to say yes, otherwise he’ll say no just to crush Clint._

_But he is desperate, though. So very desperate. He hasn’t touched his bow in weeks. He can feel the urge sitting under his skin, crawling through him like electricity. The longer he goes, the more keyed-up he gets. He_ needs _it. Needs it like he needs oxygen._

_“Fine,” Rumlow says after a moment. “I suppose.”_

_Clint lets out a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He starts to get up, but Rumlow’s hand clamps down hard on his shoulder._

_“Where do you think you’re going?”_

_“But you just said---” Clint gestures at the door, then looks back at him._

_“I didn’t mean now, tiger. I’m not done with my work yet.”_

_Clint looks at him, then the door, then down at the ground._ I can walk myself there, _is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows that if he says it, Rumlow will take back his permission in a heartbeat. He can’t risk it. “Okay. Sorry.”_

_Rumlow makes a pleased noise. “You really want this, don’t you?” Clint shrugs slightly, hoping that’ll be enough. “Give me a few more minutes and then we can go, okay?” He turns back to his desk, keeping a hand in Clint’s hair, gently scratching through it._

_It’s not affection. It’s_ not.

_Clint leans into it anyway._

“Clint,” Bucky says, and Clint surfaces from the memory. Judging by the tone, this is the third or fourth time Bucky’s called his name. “You okay?”

“Sorry,” he says after a moment, looking into Bucky’s concerned face. “I was...I was just thinking. What did you say?”

“I said if guns aren’t a problem, what will be?”

“Lack of intel, mostly.” Clint rolls back to laying down, fighting off the dizziness as his blood recirculates from his head. “I’ve never been to this place, I don’t know anything about the defenses or the layout, and we’re not even really sure if Natasha is there or not.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise. “She’ll be there,” he says. “If your friend is Red Room, she’ll be there. They’re...particular.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They don’t trust outsiders. They like things done a certain way. They’re particular about their training, and who teaches it. I remember...” He trails off, then in a frustrated voice says, “Nothing. I don’t remember anything. I just _know_ that, and I don’t know why.”

“I trust you,” Clint says. “If you say she’s there, then she’s there.” He rubs his eyes. “But the rest of it---the layout, the defenses...I just don’t know how we’re going to get in. There’s only two of us. And if they’re training more Black Widows in there...” He shudders, thinking of facing off against a room of Natashas. “I’m a good fighter, but I’m not _that_ good. No one is that good.”

“What about your...Fury? Can he help us?”

“Possibly.” Clint rubs his eyes again, willing the caffeine to kick in. “It depends on how put together SHIELD is. Hydra did a fucking number on them. It’s great that he’s not dead, but I don’t know what kind of resources he’s got left. Or people.” He sighs.” Fury’s great, but his priority is going to be to stop Hydra. If it means sacrificing Nat along the way...”

Bucky shifts, making the bunk creak. “We’ll get her,” he says. “I promise.”

Clint nods. “Fucking hope so,” he mutters. He’s trying very hard not to think about what they’re doing to Nat, knowing the more he dwells on it, the more he’s likely to work himself into a semi-contained panic.

“Hey,” Bucky says, a little sharper. “We’ll get her.”

Clint nods again. “I know,” he says, trying for Bucky’s sake to sound like he believes it. “It’s just...they’re gonna be looking for us, you know? They know we’re coming. This isn’t exactly a surprise ambush.”

“We’ll still have an advantage,” Bucky says. “If they’re going to be on alert, we can confuse them. Set off a distraction. If you can’t break into somewhere without attracting attention, the next best thing is to attract as much attention as possible.”

Clint snorts. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Sure it is,” Bucky says. “If they’re going to be looking for something, then we should give them something to look at.”

Clint starts to protest, but actually, he’s got a point. “If we can find a hardware store in Kiev,” he says, “I can whip us up some pretty decent distractions.”

“That would be the best way to do it,” Bucky says. “One of us acts as a decoy, the other goes in. If we get more backup from your friends, then we just keep it like that, only expand the teams.”

Clint nods. “So you run around in the woods and blow shit up, and I go in?”

“No, _you_ run around in the woods. _I_ go in.”

“You don’t know what Natasha looks like.”

“So describe her to me.”

“She doesn’t know you, there’s no way---”

Bucky makes an irritated noise. “Clint.” There’s a moment of tension, and without even seeing him, Clint can picture the look on Bucky’s face.

“Look,” Clint says. “I get that you want to protect me. But I’m telling you---it’s not an option this time. I’m going in there and I’m getting Natasha, and if you want to keep me safe, the best thing you can do is make sure every one of those fuckers is looking at something else when I do it. She’s my best goddamn friend, and I’m not sending someone else in there to rescue her. This is _my_ job.” He rolls to the edge of the bunk and looks down at Bucky. “Got it?”

Bucky doesn’t look happy about it, but he nods. “Alright.”

“Good.” Clint flops onto his back. “So. We contact Fury, see if we can get any backup. We pick up some weapons. We get some transportation, we get to Belarus, we kick some ass, and we rescue Nat. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like something,” Bucky says. “I don’t know about a plan.”

“Shut up, it’s a great plan and you know it.”

“It’s something,” Bucky mutters again, and Clint decides not to comment further. He reaches over and pulls the shade up instead, letting his eyes focus on the blur of green outside the window. It’s soothing to look at, especially in time with the train. Helps him stop thinking so hard.

Except there’s still something he needs to know, so after a while, he decides to suck it up and just ask. “Hey,” he says, rolling to the edge of the bed and poking his head over the side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. He meets Clint’s eyes, calm and focused.

Clint taps his fingers on the bunk rail, concentrating on the pinging sound of his fingernails against the metal. Then he blurts out, “Why did you kiss me?”

Bucky blinks in surprise, then tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing. “You kissed me first,” he says slowly.

“Well, yeah,” Clint admits. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Why am I sorry?”

“Why shouldn’t you have kissed me?”

Clint stares at him a little. “Because I didn’t ask you,” he finally says. “I just did it.”

Bucky shrugs. “So?”

“So that’s not right,” Clint says, still staring at him. “You can’t just go around kissing people without permission. It’s...not right.”

“It’s not the first time,” Bucky says, all nonchalant. Like that’s not a horrifying thing to say.

Clint winces. “That doesn’t make it _better_ , Jesus. I think that makes it worse, actually.” He rubs his forehead, already feeling a headache coming on. “Look, it’s not about how often it’s happened. It’s about consent. It’s about if you _wanted_ it to happen.”

“But I did want it to happen.” Bucky arches an eyebrow at him. “That time, anyway. So what’s the problem?”

“I didn’t _know_ you wanted it to happen. I just assumed---“ Clint blinks. “Wait, you wanted that?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. “Very much.”

“Oh.” Clint stops for a moment, then says, “I still should have asked. It’s...we’ve both been through a lot. I should’ve asked.”

“I should have too, then.” Bucky looks thoughtful, then says, “Was it okay?”

Clint snickers. “The kiss itself or the fact that it happened?”

“Both?”

He laughs. “Yeah, man. It was a good kiss, and I definitely wanted it. I mean, it was a little bit of a shock. But I wanted it.” He pauses, then plows ahead. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again, either.”

Bucky tilts his head. “That so?” he asks, and there’s a teasing tone to his voice that Clint’s never heard before. He likes it instantly. “Come down here and do something about it, then.”

Clint stares at him for a moment, because that’s _not_ a line that he would have expected to come out of Bucky. Ever. “Uh...”

“I mean,” Bucky adds, suddenly looking unsure, and _there’s_ the guy that Clint’s more familiar with. It relaxes him a bit, for whatever reason. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Clint assures him. “I---fuck yes, I want, hang on---” He moves to roll out of his bunk, except the blanket catches on his legs in the process. He executes a very undignified fumble before wrenching free with enough force to pitch himself off the bunk. “Shit!”

He lands awkwardly on the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the little sink. The blanket comes with him, and he has to unwrap it from his legs _again_. He throws it at the door with a vengeance. “Rotten bastard,” he tells it, and swivels to look at Bucky.

Bucky is sitting up and staring at him, a disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “How have you survived this long?”

“I think the universe likes to watch me suffer,” Clint sighs, pretty sure his face is going to be red for the rest of eternity. “It’s the only explanation for anything.”

“Makes sense.”

There’s a moment then, where they stare at each other. A sense of “are we really gonna do this” hanging between them.

Then Bucky says, “Now what?”

Clint clears his throat. “You still want this?”

He nods.

“Okay then,” Clint says, carefully getting on his knees. He’s a little shorter than Bucky at this angle, but it’s fine. He shuffles closer, making sure to telegraph all his movements clearly. Last thing he wants to do right now is something unexpected.

“I’m not...” Bucky starts.

Clint pauses. “Not what?”

“Not good at this,” Bucky says. “At...kissing.”

He sounds vaguely embarrassed about it, and Clint has to stop himself from smiling. “Beg to differ,” he says. “Speaking from experience, you are _very_ good at kissing.”

A corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “But just to be sure, I think we should test it again right now. For science, you know.”

“For science,” Bucky echoes. “Okay.”

“There we go,” Clint says, and he leans forward.

It's not like their first kiss, which was more of an accident than anything else. And it’s not like their second one either, born out of fear and desperation. This one is...softer. More hesitant. Clint presses his lips to Bucky’s, not trying for anything more than just basic contact. Testing the waters. Gentle exploration. After a moment, he pulls back. “That okay?”

“It was fine,” Bucky says, looking a little lost. “I...”

He sounds unsure, and Clint puts a hand on his arm. “Hey,” he says. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable. I don’t want to---”

“I want to,” Bucky says, voice suddenly fierce. “I _want_ it. I wanted to kiss you when I first saw you, and then in the plane, and again in the hotel, and now. I want to kiss you all the time.”

“Oh,” Clint says, suddenly feeling like all the wind’s been knocked out of him. “I...did not know that.”

“I’ve never felt like that before,” Bucky whispers. “I’m not...I’m not supposed to feel like that. I’m not supposed to feel at all.”

“You’re a person,” Clint gently reminds him. “Feelings are good, remember?”

“I know,” Bucky says, eyes fixed on a point just above Clint’s head. “It’s just...new.”

“New is okay.” Clint shrugs. “Scary sometimes, but okay.”

Bucky nods and meets his eyes. “Can we do it again?” He smiles, and Clint’s heart skips a beat at the sight. “For more science.”

Clint laughs. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Bucky admits. “But I don’t care. It made you laugh.” And he’s the one who leans in this time.

Clint’s kissed a lot of people in his lifetime---guys, girls, everything in between. He likes kissing, always has. Likes the intimacy of it, and the newness of exploring another person.

He’s never felt anything like this, though. His whole body is tingling, hyper aware of every single point of contact between himself and Bucky. It’s hypnotic, drawing him in until the only thing he knows is the press of Bucky’s mouth against his, and the taste of Bucky on his tongue, and the feel of Bucky’s hands sliding around him, pulling him closer.

Clint’s not entirely sure _how_ it happens, but one moment he’s kneeling on the floor, and the next he’s being lifted into the air, smoothly arranged so he’s straddling Bucky’s lap, knees on either side of his hips. “Whoa,” he says, breaking off the kiss and grabbing Bucky’s shoulders for support. “ _Jesus_ , you’re strong.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, one hand firmly against Clint’s spine. The heat of it burns through Clint’s t-shirt, like a brand on his skin. “I know.”

“Modest,” Clint teases, and Bucky smiles again.

“This okay?” he asks, settling his other hand at Clint’s waist.

“More comfortable than the floor,” Clint says, and kisses him. He could stay like this forever, really. He _wants_ to stay like this forever. Wants to stay wrapped up in Bucky’s arms, and forget the rest of the world, even just for a few minutes.

But the rest of the world doesn’t get the memo, because a few minutes later, someone knocks at the door. Clint slides off Bucky’s lap, good feelings draining away to be replaced by the ever-present paranoia. Bucky pulls a gun from under his pillow and gets up as well, putting himself between Clint and the door. At a second, more insistent knock, he gingerly reaches out and opens it.

It’s just one of the train conductors. He greets them in Romanian, and Bucky responds in kind, taking the little slips of paper he hands over. He passes them back to Clint without looking at them, then says something else and closes the door.

His shoulders visibly relax as soon as it clicks shut, and Clint feels his own tension ease a bit. “What was that about?”

“He said we could use those in the dining car,” Bucky says. “Something about first-class passengers getting discounts? And that we’re on track to arrive early in Kiev.”

“Oh. Good to know.” Clint looks at the papers in his hand. Coupons, probably. “Well, I guess we should eat something. And then you should maybe try to sleep more?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, looking at him. Specifically, looking at his mouth.

Clint grins. “If you promise to take a nap after lunch, I’ll let you kiss me again when you wake up.”

“Deal,” Bucky says immediately, and pulls the papers from his hand. “Food. Let’s go.”

Clint laughs and follows him out the door. They eat---something that Clint can’t pronounce, but is fantastic anyway. Then Bucky does sleep for a while after that---nearly three hours by Clint’s count---and as promised, Clint kisses him again when he wakes up. And a little more after that, just because he can. Because kissing Bucky is an _experience_ , never the same thing twice, but somehow still wonderful every time.

They get off the train in Kiev, opting by unspoken agreement to stay together. There’s no trouble in the station, not even a hint of Hydra. Not that he really expected any---they know what the end result will be, no point in continuing to waste manpower searching along the route---but it’s still a nice change of pace.

Clint doesn’t waste any time. He leads Bucky through the darkened streets, navigating from memory. The shuttered-up house is still there, complete with the ragged figures hanging around it. Clint eyes them nervously, remembering the flash of a knife in the darkness.

“This is it?” Bucky asks, looking up.

“This is it.” He shoves the door open, startling a few people inside, then immediately heads for the stairs. “Watch your step.”

Two seconds after the words leave his mouth, his foot goes through a chunk of rotting wood, and he falls forward. Bucky catches him, gloved fingers wrapping around his arm just in time to save his head from catching the edge of a stair.

“Watch _your_ step,” he says mildly, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“Shut up,” Clint says, pulling his arm free. “But also, thank you.”

“Of course.”

They make it to the top of the stairs, and Clint goes into the room on the left. He ignores the sleeping couple on the dirty bed and kneels by the window, patting around until he finds a loose floorboard. “Here we go,” he says. “Give me a hand, will you? Literally.”

Bucky mutters something in Russian that Clint doesn’t catch, and drops beside him. He grabs the floorboard and pulls, yanking it out in a matter of seconds. “There.”

“So strong,” Clint says, winking at him. “Thank you.” He reaches into the space underneath them, and pulls out a plastic baggie with a phone in it. “Yes!”

He pulls it out and turns it on. There’s only one number programmed in it. He hits it, then puts the phone to his ear.

Two rings later, a familiar voice picks up. “Barton. You got here quick. I’m impressed.”

“I’m good like that,” Clint says. “Are you in town?”

“I am.” He rattles off an address, and Clint commits it to memory. “Meet me there in two hours. I have some things you might want to get your hands on before you go to Belarus.”

“We’ll be there.”

The line goes dead, and Clint fights down the urge to let out a cheer. _About damn time something goes right for us._

“Good news?” Bucky asks.

“Great news.” Clint gets to his feet and tucks the phone into his pocket. “I’ve got an address, we’re going to meet up with Fury. He’s got some things to give us, apparently.”

“And after that?”

Clint flashes him a dark smile. “Then we go get Natasha, and we raise a little hell.”

“Works for me,” Bucky says, gesturing to the door. “Let’s do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks to clintscoffeepot for the beta (she just posted [her own fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25338685/chapters/61436941?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_325375651), y'all should check it out!)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t ready for Hydra to suddenly have the ability to murder hundreds of thousands of people, and he sure as hell never expected it to be because of something SHIELD did. They’re supposed to be the good guys. The peacekeepers. That was the whole point of doing the things he did. That was why he joined.
> 
> It’s a little jarring, really, to realize the things he believed in might have been wrong. Clint’s not naive, he knew SHIELD wasn’t perfect. But they tried, and that made all the difference. Or at least, he thought it did. Once upon a time.

The address is a little house in a suburb, nestled on a street with a dozen others just like it. Clint has the taxi drop them off a few blocks away, and they slink through the darkened streets for the rest of it. He feels like he should be more paranoid about this part, but he’s not.

At first, he can’t put his finger on it. Nothing’s changed, really. Hydra’s still hunting them. They’re still in danger. They’re still about to go do something very dangerous.

And yet.

He finally figures it out, about a block from the house. There’s a moment where he and Bucky are looking around a corner, both of them ready for anything. Clint glances at him at the same time Bucky looks his way, and their eyes meet. They don’t say anything, but they don’t have to. There’s an understanding between them, something that goes beyond words. Something that Clint’s only ever experienced with Natasha before this.

Bucky smiles at him---a small thing, a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment. Then he nods down the street. “After you.”

Clint starts walking. No one comes out as they approach the house, not even when he pushes open the charming little gate leading up to it. He’d bet anything that Fury knows they’re there, but there’s no indication of it. Clint waits on the front porch for a moment, then reaches out and knocks on the door.

Ten seconds later, Maria Hill opens it. 

“Maria,” Clint says, relief hitting him like a truck. “You’re alive.”

“Agent Barton,” she says, looking just as relieved. “Clint. It’s good to see you.” She looks over his shoulder at Bucky, who’s looming ominously behind him. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Bucky,” Clint says. “He’s---”

There’s a clicking noise, and behind Maria, Fury comes into view. He looks good---although considering the last time Clint saw him, he was actively dying, so anything over that is an improvement. Clint grins at him, although it fades a little when he sees the gun aimed squarely at Bucky.

“Hey,” Clint says sharply. “Fury. He’s with me.”

“He tried to kill me,” Fury says, voice cold.

“Hydra brainwashed him.” Clint steps in front of Bucky, hands up. “He’s with me. Put the gun down.”

It doesn’t move. “He’s under Hydra’s control.”

“He’s not.” Bucky starts to say something, and Clint puts a hand on his arm. “We got away from Hydra a few days ago. He’s saved my life several times. He’s not under their control.” He locks eyes with Fury. “I _trust_ him.”

Fury holds the gun up a moment longer, then gives a short nod. “Alright,” he says. “If you trust him.” He taps Maria’s shoulder. “Let them in.”

Clint and Bucky follow them into the house. It’s nondescript, as far as houses go. The only remarkable thing about it is that most of the living room has been taken up by computer monitors and other various electronic equipment.

“Welcome to SHIELD,” Fury says, spreading his hands out.

Clint looks around at the setup. “Please tell me this isn’t all you have.”

“It’s not.” Fury points at the kitchen table. “Sit. Tell me everything that’s happened to you.”

They sit. Maria slides over some coffee mugs---actual, decent coffee, Clint almost starts _crying_ \---and they tell their story. It takes the better part of an hour, even with keeping most of it to himself. Fury doesn’t need to know about all the shit Rumlow pulled. He does show Fury the cuffs, but he doesn’t elaborate beyond that.

Bucky pitches in a few times. Every time he opens his mouth, Fury twitches towards his gun. Which is understandable on some level, but Clint finds it a little offensive anyway. Bucky’s just as much a victim as the rest of them, it’s not like he _chose_ to try and kill Fury. _And Fury didn’t even die, so---_

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, putting a hand on Clint’s knee. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Clint says, glaring at Fury. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t know why he’s mad. He’d be on edge too if someone had tried to assassinate him, and then that same person showed up in his kitchen months later. Fury’s not exactly in the wrong here.

Still, he knows Bucky didn’t have a choice in any of that, and he doesn’t really appreciate the hostility. “I’m _fine_ ,” he says again. “So that’s what happened. Bucky and I got away a few days ago, and now we’re going to go break out Nat.”

Fury shakes his head. “That’s not a smart move, Barton.” He gestures towards the computers. “We’ve been tracking and monitoring Hydra activity to the best of our ability, and they---”

“We know,” Clint interrupts. “We _know_ they’re going to be there, we _know_ they’re going to have a trap set, we _know_ we’re walking right into it. We know!” His voice gets louder, rising until he’s shouting, and he stands up with enough force to knock his chair over. “Okay? We get it! But if you fucking think I’m going to leave her there---”

“Barton!”

Clint stops with an effort. Fury and Hill are both staring at him, eyes wide. Clint swallows hard, then rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m---I’m sorry. I just---”

“Hey,” Bucky says. He gets up, steps into Clint’s space, gently pushing him back against the counter. “Easy, Clint.”

“I’m---”

“I know,” Bucky says soothingly. “I know. But they’re trying to help. Please don’t yell at them.” He puts his hand on Clint’s arm, rubbing his thumb in a little circle over his bicep. “Okay?”

The fight seems to drain right out of Clint, and he sags against the counter, letting out a long breath. “Okay,” he murmurs, nodding once. “You’re right.”

“Good,” Bucky murmurs. He looks for a moment like he wants to kiss Clint again, but then he glances over his shoulder at Hill and Fury, both of whom are watching with curious, slightly confused expressions.

Clint bites back a smile and puts his hand over Bucky’s. “I’m okay,” he says, and moves to sit back down in his chair. “Sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to lose it.”

“You’ve had a long couple of months,” Hill says. “It’s understandable.” She flicks her eyes to Bucky again, then turns to Fury. “Well?”

Fury’s mouth thins, but he nods. “Backup is limited,” he says. “As are our resources. If you’re going to go, we can’t offer you a whole lot.” 

“What can you offer?”

Fury gets up and disappears into another room, returning with a familiar-looking black case. “This, first of all,” he says, pushing it across the table towards Clint.

Clint puts his hands on it, hardly daring to breathe. “Oh my god,” he says. “Is this...”

“It was in one of the equipment trucks we stole,” Fury says. “I’ve been holding onto it.”

Clint pops the latches on the case and reverently pulls it open. “Hi, baby,” he whispers, reaching in and running his hand over the contents. “Aren’t you pretty?”

Bucky leans over. “Is that...is that a bow?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, pulling it out. He stands up and unfolds it, gently rubbing his hand over the risers. “Oh baby, I _missed_ you.”

Fury makes an amused noise. “Would you like us to leave you alone?”

“Shut up,” Clint says. “This is my favorite bow and I haven’t held it in months.” He picks up the quiver and flips through the arrows. “Oh man, I forgot about the net ones!”

Bucky is staring at him. “You use this? In fights?”

“You have a problem with that?” Clint bonks him on the head with an arrow. “I’m damn good at it, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky says, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Do you want me to paint some targets on the bad guys for you? Number them for points?”

“You’re an asshole,” Clint says, grinning at him. He nocks an arrow. “You need a demonstration, or---“

“Barton.” Fury leans forward. “Please don’t shoot up my headquarters, we just moved here.”

“No promises,” Clint says. He sets the quiver down. “I really appreciate this, Fury, but I was kind of hoping for a little more.”

“I know,” Fury says. “But we’re struggling at the moment. Hydra hit us hard, Barton. We’ve only just started to put ourselves back together, and there’s something else that’s requiring our attention. Something bigger than Agent Romanoff.”

Well, _that_ doesn’t sound good. Clint puts everything back in the case and closes it. “Like what?”

“Project Insight,” Fury says.

Next to him, Bucky startles at the words. “Project Insight?”

Clint looks at it. “You know what that is?”

“I’ve heard it mentioned. They say things around me, sometimes. They think I don’t listen.” He rubs his forehead. “I thought that wasn’t supposed to be up and running for months yet.”

Fury stares at him, but seems to recover after a moment. “They’re ahead of schedule,” he says. “It’s launching sometime in the next two weeks. We haven’t been able to pin down a date.”

Hill leans forward. “We’ve got people working on it,” she says. “But we could use your help. Both of you. It’s...it’s big.”

Clint looks around. “Care to clue me in, anyone?”

“Project Insight was a SHIELD project,” Fury says. “Helicarriers, to be exact. Three of them, next generation with state-of-the-art targeting systems, synched to a network of targeting satellites. We designed them to be the first line of defense against potential dangers to the United States.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “So why---” He stops. “Wait. _Potential_ dangers?”

“Anything that SHIELD determined to be a threat,” Fury says. “Anything that might threaten the safety of the country.”

“ _Potential_ is the word I’m stuck on here.” Clint leans forward. “Who, exactly, qualifies these threats?”

“SHIELD does. I convinced the World Security Council we needed a quantum surge in threat analysis. They gave us the go-ahead to create Insight.”

Bucky’s hand curls into a fist. “You’re holding a gun to everyone’s head, and calling it protection.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to challenge us,” Fury snaps at him. “You have no part in this.”

Bucky lets out a bitter laugh. “No part?” He tugs off his glove and slams his metal hand on the table, hard enough to leave a dent. “I _am_ the gun, asshole. I’ve been the gun since Hydra made me seventy years ago. That’s _why_ they made me.” Bucky shakes his head. “This isn’t a new idea, Hydra’s been doing it for a century. Analyze potential threats, and then eliminate them. Except now you’ve given them the ability to do it on a mass scale!”

“We were trying to keep people free,” Fury growls. “We were trying to keep them safe!”

Clint shakes his head. “That’s not freedom, Fury. It’s fear.”

“It doesn’t matter either way,” Hill says, cutting off Fury’s response. “Hydra has control of the project now. And they’ve developed an algorithm to determine threats. It’s not just terrorists anymore. Not just people planning to hurt the country.” She slides a tablet across the table to him, her face pale. “It’s everybody. Anyone who might even pose the slightest bit of a threat to Hydra. The system has the potential to target over seven-hundred thousand people.” She swallows, then adds, “The number keeps going up.”

Clint scrolls through the tablet, eyes widening at every new tab popping up. “That’s...that’s a lot of people.”

“We’re working on it,” she says. “A way to take them down. But we could use more help. You’re one of our best agents.” She glances at Bucky. “And if you know Hydra---”

“We’re getting Nat first,” Clint says. “It’s not negotiable.”

Fury narrows his eye. “Did you not hear---”

“I heard,” he says. “But we’re getting Nat first. Then we’ll help.” He puts both hands on the table and leans forward. “I’ve left her alone long enough, Fury. I’m rescuing my best friend, and when she’s safe, _then_ I’ll come clean up your mess for you.”

“And I’m with him,” Bucky says. “To the end of the line.”

He looks startled at his own words for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows in a way that Clint recognizes instantly. “Memory?” he asks.

“I...I don’t know.” Bucky shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter, anyway.” He looks at Fury. “We need weapons, we need a map, and we need transportation. And we need anything you have on the Red Room. Anything at all.”

Fury raises an eyebrow. “Are you giving _me_ orders?”

“Do it,” Clint orders. “The sooner you help us, the sooner we can help you.” He turns to Hill. “Is there any chance of us having backup?”

“No,” Hill says as Fury gets up and goes to the computers. Bucky follows him after a moment. “I’m sorry, but there’s no one close enough. It would take at least a day to scramble a team.”

“What about you two?”

“We can’t risk it.” She glances at Fury, who’s now over by the computers and typing furiously. “We’re all that’s left of SHIELD’s higher up chain of command. People are depending on us.”

“So why did you come here?”

“To meet _you_.” She gestures to the case. “There’s small teams popping up all over, but currently, you’re the highest ranking agent that’s not in Hydra.” Tears fill her eyes, and she takes a breath before continuing. “He was being generous before. Hydra didn’t just hit hard. They _ruined_ us. They’ve been growing inside SHIELD for decades, and their strike was devastating.”

“How many are left?” Clint asks. “Agents, I mean.”

“Confirmed alive and free?” He nods. “Including you...I think we’re at one-hundred.”

“Ninety-seven,” Fury says. “Ninety-eight if Romanoff is still kicking.”

Clint slumps back in his chair. “That’s _it?_ ”

“That’s it,” she confirms.

Ninety-seven. Christ. Ninety-seven out of _thousands_.

“There’s probably some more working in Hydra,” she adds. “But we haven’t been able to count those.”

Clint nods. “I know a couple,” he says. “They helped me in Bucharest.”

“We’ve suspected. We’re working with one or two that we know are safe. But for now...” She shrugs. “This is it. This is all we’ve got.”

“I gotta say, I was really hoping you’d have better news. An underground network or something. A plan.”

She smiles bitterly. “You and me both, Barton. We just...weren’t ready. Not for something on this scale.”

“Yeah. I know.” He rubs his eyebrows, and the sleeve of his jacket falls down enough to reveal the cuffs around his wrist.

Hill tilts her head, studying them. “Rumlow did that to you?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes are way too perceptive. Clint’s always felt like she’s been able to see through him, and this is no exception. He looks away after a moment, unable to meet her eyes.

Her hand reaches across the table to cover his. “I’m sorry,” she says after a moment. “We tried to get to you. Once we had some people. We really did.”

That’s news to Clint. “You did?”

“We didn’t make it,” she says. “Obviously. Someone had you locked down tight.” She looks at the cuffs. “Rumlow, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah. He, uh...kept me on a close leash.” Clint closes his eyes for a moment. “Too close, sometimes.”

“What did he do?”

Clint stares at the table. “Whatever he wanted, really. I didn’t...I couldn’t stop him.” He shivers. “I tried, sometimes, but he’d...”

_He’s late._

_It’s not his fault. Rollins wouldn’t give him the fucking file, and then the elevator had been broken again, so he’d had to take the stairs. It’s not his fault._

_Rumlow’s gonna kill him anyway._

_Clint takes the stairs two at a time, pausing only to catch his breath. He can’t even take the moment to relish being alone---the first time he’s been alone in days---because every second he’s late is another excuse for Rumlow to do whatever fucked up thing he’s got planned._

_It’s not fucking fair. It’s not his fault._

_He bursts into the room, apologies already spilling from him as he stumbles to a halt behind Rumlow. “I’m sorry,” he says, gasping for air. “The elevators---Rollins wouldn’t---stairs”_

_Rumlow slowly turns around, and Clint winces at the look on his face. He’s not angry, not even a little bit. He’s smug, and that’s worse. It’s always worse._

_He casts his eyes over Clint, a smirk crossing his mouth as he takes the file. “You’re late.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Clint says, and he’s never hated himself so much in his life. “Rollins wouldn’t give it to me.”_

_“Did you tell him I sent you?”_

_Clint nods._

_“Hmm.” Rumlow opens the file and skims the contents, then hands it off to a tech. “You should’ve let me know.”_

_Anger surges through Clint, burning away the exhaustion. “With what?” he snaps. “A fucking carrier pigeon? Smoke signals? I don’t have a goddamn phone, Rumlow, how the hell---”_

_He sees the hit coming, but he knows better than to block it. All he can do is brace himself and let the hit rock him, let it send him to the floor._

_“You’re smart,” Rumlow says. “You could’ve figured something out.” He nudges Clint with his foot. “On your knees.”_

_Clint glances around at everyone else, all of whom suddenly appear very interested in what they’re doing. Rumlow catches it, and he smiles, broad and predatory. Clint winces again as he shifts up to his knees. Nothing good ever follows that smile._

_“I don’t appreciate the back-talk, sweetheart,” Rumlow says calmly. “You know that.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Clint says again, wishing he could sink through the floor._

_“And you were being such a good boy for me, too.” He sighs in feigned disappointment. “I’m disappointed in you, Barton.”_

_“I didn’t---” Clint stops, helpless. The whole room is watching them. Not directly, but he can feel the press of their eyes. It makes his face flush red, and all he can do is hope it blends into the exertion from his run up the stairs. “I didn’t mean to.”_

_“Can’t do a single goddamn thing right, can you?” His voice is meaner now. Colder. “Can’t be respectful, can’t get a fucking file on time. What’s the point of having you around if you’re not going to be useful?”_

_Clint bites his lip and stares at the floor. “I don’t know,” he finally whispers. His eyes are burning._

_“Should leave you downstairs,” Rumlow says. “Put you in your little basement daycare so I can actually get some fucking work done.”_

_Clint shakes his head. “Please don’t,” he says, and he knows they can all hear him. “Rumlow. Please.”_

_“Sometimes I think you want me to.” Rumlow crosses his arms. “With the way you behave?”_

_He feels like a little kid, getting yelled at by his teachers, or his dad, or any of the assholes in the circus who liked to beat up on him and Barney. It’s humiliating as it is, and it’s worse that it’s_ here _, in front of everybody. In front of people he used to work with. People he trained. People who, once upon a time, respected him._

_Which, of course, is why Rumlow’s doing it. But knowing the_ why _of it doesn’t make it any easier._

_Rumlow’s foot nudges him. “I’m talking to you, Barton.”_

_“I’m listening,” Clint says automatically. “I’m---I’m listening. Please don’t do that.” He looks up at Rumlow. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”_

_“You did,” Rumlow agrees. “Like I said, it’s a shame. Things were going so well.”_

_Clint just barely bites back a protest. Christ, he hates himself. He’s so fucking weak. Is he really that starved for affection that he’s begging Rumlow to tell him he’s good? Is his head really that fucked up?_

_Must be, because the words slip out anyway. “I can be good.”_

_Rumlow’s eyes light up. It’s like Christmas for him, seeing Clint like this. “You think so?” he asks. “Because I haven’t seen much of that, lately. Every time I think you can, you do something to fuck it up.”_

_Clint looks down at the floor again. He’s right. Every single time things have been going good, he’s managed to screw it up somehow. He always fucking does that. He’s got a track record that goes back long beyond any of this. Really, his whole goddamn life has been a series of screwups._

_“I’m sorry,” he says, and closes his eyes, trying to pull his shattered fragments together._

_“If you were sorry, you’d be making an effort to do better.”_

_“I---” Clint grits his teeth, takes a long, slow breath. He’s not going to cry. He’s_ not _. “I’ll do better. I can do better.”_

_Rumlow makes a noncommittal noise and crosses his arms. “Well,” he says. “We’ll see about that. Maybe getting a file was too complicated. Maybe you need something easier.”_

_For a moment, Clint thinks he’s talking about sex, and his blood goes cold. Rumlow’s not exactly shy about what they do, but Clint honestly doesn’t know if he’d fuck him right here in front of everybody, and---_

_“Tell you what,” Rumlow says, slow and lazy. “I could use a coffee.” He looks down at Clint, a cold sneer marring his face. “Think you can manage that? Or is that too hard for you? Are you gonna fuck it up?”_

_“I can do it,” Clint says. Too fast, but he can’t help it. He can’t bring himself to look at Rumlow. “I won’t fuck up, I can do it.”_

_“Then go get me a coffee. You know how I like it.”_

_Clint nods once, then slowly gets to his feet. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he shuffles out. He knows they’re all watching him, but he doesn’t want to see the judgement or the pity in their eyes. Not right now._

_He goes down the hall to the lounge and brews a cup of coffee, making it as strong as he can. When it’s done, he carries the cup back to Rumlow and hands it to him, then kneels without being asked._

_“Very good,” Rumlow says approvingly, and Clint feels something ease in him at the words, tension draining from his body. Rumlow doesn’t miss it either. “Maybe you’re not so useless after all.”_

_“I can be good,” Clint mutters, barely audible._

_“Sometimes,” Rumlow agrees. He sits down in his chair and sips his coffee. “Maybe that’s all you needed, huh? Just to be put in your place a little. That’s what you wanted, right?”_

_His voice is loud, pitching throughout the room. One of the techs glances at Clint, a hint of a knowing smile on his face. Clint’s hand clenches into a fist at his side._

_Rumlow raises an eyebrow. “I asked you a question.”_

_“Yeah,” Clint says, feeling shame flash through him. “That’s what I wanted.”_

_Rumlow smiles, cold and cruel, and puts a hand on Clint’s head, pulling it back. He’s gentle about it, but there’s no fighting the insistent pressure, and Clint doesn’t bother trying. He tilts his head back with it, baring his throat, leaving his hands by his side. Rumlow’s eyes flicker with approval. “What do you say when you get what you want?”_

_“Thank you,” Clint says._

_“Good boy,” Rumlow purrs. He lets go but keeps his hand in Clint’s hair, slowly carding through it. It’s borderline affectionate. It feels good._

_Clint doesn’t bother fighting that, either._

“Doesn’t matter,” Clint says. He needs to get a better handle on himself---one of these days he’s going to lose himself in a memory at the wrong moment and put someone in danger. “He was an asshole. That’s all there is to it.”

Hill is looking at him with something akin to sympathy, and he hates it. He doesn’t want her pity. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable in front of her. In front of any of them.

Well. Maybe in front of Bucky. He doesn’t mind that so much.

“We need to get going,” he says shortly, and stands up. “We still have a long way to go.”

“Fair enough,” Hill says.

Bucky comes back over. He looks between Hill and Clint, a question in his eyes. Clint shakes his head. _Not now_ , he mouths, and Bucky nods. “We’re ready,” is all he says. “I’ve got maps, and weapons, and Fury says we can take the car in the garage.” He tilts his head. “Are you ready to go now, or do you want to wait?”

“No,” Clint says. “I want to go.” He turns to Fury. “Are you burning this place when we leave?”

“We are.” Fury looks around at the computers. “We were only here for you. We’ll be going to the States after this. We need to hit the ground running on this Project Insight thing.” He glares at Clint. “We could use your help, _Agent_ Barton.”

The emphasis on agent is probably supposed to remind him of his responsibilities, but honestly, it just pisses him off. He knew Fury would be like this---pragmatic, cold, ready to take down Hydra at any cost. He was ready for that part.

He _wasn’t_ ready for Hydra to suddenly have the ability to murder hundreds of thousands of people, and he sure as hell never expected it to be because of something SHIELD did. They’re supposed to be the good guys. The peacekeepers. That was the whole point of doing the things he did. That was why he joined.

It’s a little jarring, really, to realize the things he believed in might have been wrong. Clint’s not naive, he knew SHIELD wasn’t perfect. But they _tried_ , and that made all the difference. Or at least, he thought it did. Once upon a time.

“Sorry, _Director_ ,” he says. “Save a space for us at the table. We’ll be bringing Nat with us.”

Hill passes him his bow case and a set of coordinates on a scrap of paper. “There’s a Quinjet hidden at this location,” she says. “When you get there, there’s a radio in the back of it. Single-use frequency, like the ones Stark made for the Avengers. Turn it on, and we’ll send you a location.” She hugs him. “Please be careful, Clint.”

“We will.” He clumsily pats her on the back, then steps away. “Hey, do you know anything about Bruce? Last I heard---”

“Banner’s in the States,” Fury says. “One of our operatives tracked him down in India, and we were able to fly him back. He’ll be waiting when you return.”

Clint laughs. “Hell yeah!”

“We know Stark is still alive,” Fury continues. “And so is Rogers.”

Bucky’s face goes dark at the name. “They’re---”

“Brainwashing him,” Fury says. “We’re aware. Do you know of any way to break through it?”

Bucky’s gaze flickers to Clint. “I have some ideas,” he says, gaze drifting to Clint’s mouth, and Clint feels his ears suddenly start to heat up. “But we can’t do anything about it right now.”

Clint nods. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “We’ll get everyone back. We’ll get everything back.”

Fury looks skeptical. “That’s optimistic.”

“It’s what’s keeping me going,” Clint says honestly. “Because if I stop to think about everything, I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

Fury nods. “Understandable,” he says, and for a moment, his Director persona fades away. Clint sees past it, right through to the man underneath. A man who’s poured his entire life into building up an organization, only to have it ripped out from underneath him by the very people he thought he could trust.

“We’ll get it back,” Clint says again, and holds out his hand.

After a moment, Fury shakes it. “We’ll be waiting for you,” he says. “Good luck.”

Hill hands them a set of keys, and Bucky and Clint go out to the garage. “Check the trunk,” Bucky says. “Fury said there’s weapons.”

There are. Guns, and grenades, and knives, and all kinds of things. “Oh yeah,” he says, slamming it closed. “We’re in business.”

Bucky opens the garage door. “I’ve got a map,” he says. “And directions. I know where to go. It’ll be about six hours.” He gets in the driver’s side. “I’m driving.”

His tone leaves no room for arguing, so Clint doesn’t even bother. He just gets in the passenger side and closes the door. “I’ll navigate,” he says. “Gimme a map.”

Bucky tosses a paper at him. “Is there anything else we need from here? Before we go?”

“Can’t think of anything.” Clint looks at the note in his hand, with the coordinates of a Quinjet. “Everything I want is either in this car or six hours from here.”

“Everything, huh?” He starts the car.

“Everything,” Clint says, and holds up his bow case. “See?”

Bucky grins at him. “Everything,” he says. “Okay. Sure.”

“Eyes front and center.” Clint pokes his arm. “Do you even know how to drive?”

“No idea,” Bucky says, and puts the car into reverse. “Let’s find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (psst if you haven't yet pls go check out the art added last chapter, it's gorgeous and should be loved forever)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if it all goes bad—even if he ends up back in Rumlow’s grasp—he at least had this. Had a week to spend with someone he cares about, a week of feeling like a person, a week of making his own choices. He knows if he’s caught that the punishment will be horrible, but this...
> 
> This is worth it. Bucky is worth it. Natasha is worth it.

Bucky does not know how to drive.

Or rather, he does know, but it’s absolutely _terrifying_. He has no concept of following space, or speed limits, and takes yellow lights as a personal challenge. After twenty minutes, Clint’s pretty sure he’s going to need a crowbar to pry his hand off the door handle. He’d assumed the driving at the airport in India was fueled by the impending danger, but apparently, that’s just the way Bucky drives.

“Jesus,” he says after Bucky narrowly misses a car—the third in the last three minutes. “I know you’re eager to get there, but if you _kill_ us on the way—”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says dismissively. “I can do this.”

“You’re going to hit someone—”

“I’m not going to hit anyone. I dodged grenades and bullets in Germany, I can handle a few cars.” He blinks, suddenly looking surprised. “Huh. That’s new.”

“Did you just remember that?” Clint asks.

Bucky shrugs and swerves around another car. “Who knows?”

Clint braces his feet against the floor and debates whether it would be better or not to close his eyes. “I’m never letting you drive anywhere again,” he says, putting his other hand against the center console. “ _Never_.”

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky says, slamming on the brakes. “Is it?”

“I’m possibly going to throw up on you.” Clint flinches at the next wild turn. “Can you please slow down?”

Bucky sighs, but settles into a speed after that, and Clint is slowly able to peel his hand off the door handle. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I could drive. I think.”

“I know,” Clint says. “I just want to get there in one piece, without being pulled over. Or getting in an accident. This is a clean car. If we wreck it, we’re gonna have to steal one. I don’t really want to deal with that.”

“I’ll keep it under control,” Bucky promises. “It’s just—it’s freedom, you know?” He glances at Clint, and there’s a brightness in his eyes that he can’t quite hide.

And Clint does get it. He always prefers to drive whenever he and Nat go on missions. He likes being in control of the car, and the speed, and the thrill of outmaneuvering bad guys. Defensive driving was one of his favorite courses at SHIELD.

But they need to keep a low profile, so he just pats Bucky’s arm and says, “I get it, buddy. Keep it under control for now, and when all this shit’s over, I’ll take you on SHIELD’s course. It’s wild. You’ll love it.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bucky says, flashing Clint a smile. Clint’s heart warms a little at the sight. “This can go on the list, by the way.”

“I got it.” Clint taps his head. “That’s three things, now.”

“Actually, it’s four.” Bucky glances at him, then says, “I like kissing you.”

“Good. I like kissing you too.”

They grin at each other like a couple of morons, and then Bucky slams on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of them. “Sorry.”

Clint reattaches his hand to the door handle. “All good,” he says. “Just...eyes on the road, maybe.”

“I know.”

They lapse into silence for a while after that. But it’s a comfortable silence, easy between them, like they have years of knowing each other instead of just days. Clint has to keep reminding himself that it’s been less than a week of this. They barely know each other at all. Which is fine, but he can’t wait for all of this to be over. He wants to take Bucky out for dinner, figure out the things he likes, watch shitty James Bond movies with him, maybe fuck on the couch—

Clint blinks. _Where the hell did that thought come from?_

Well. He technically knows where it came from. The guy’s objectively hot, and even if they’d just met on the street randomly, Clint would still want to bang him like a screen door. But also, he _likes_ Bucky. Likes his smile, and the way he kisses, and the subtle glimmers of personality emerging from underneath the Winter Soldier brainwashing. He even likes the way Bucky tries to protect him, when normally that kind of thing makes him bristle with ‘I can take care of myself’ rage.

So yeah, Clint likes the guy. All of him, wrapped up in one big broad package. And he can’t deny he’s been low-key thinking about sleeping with him, wondering what Bucky would look like underneath Clint’s hands. Or how Bucky’s hands would feel on him.

It’s just strange, considering all of the things that have happened to him recently. With Rumlow, and all the other agents. Clint had pretty much dismissed the idea of his sex drive returning on its own. He could still get it up, but only if Rumlow put in the effort—which he’d only do when he was feeling either particularly nice or particularly sadistic. The idea of actually _wanting_ someone had seemed like a distant memory to him.

He studies Bucky, eyes tracing the curve of his jaw, and feels the faint stirrings of arousal in his gut. It makes him happy, even as it scares him a little bit. It’s nice to know that his sex drive _is_ intact, but also, he has no idea what to do about it. No idea if Bucky feels the same way, or what would even happen if they got to that point. From a psychological standpoint, Clint knows that he’s probably got a lot of trauma tied up with sex—they both do, really—and the last thing he wants to do is push the guy into something that neither of them are ready for.

Bucky glances at him, noting the way he’s looking. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Sex,” Clint says without thinking.

Bucky’s eyes go comically wide. Clint’s face heats up, and for a moment, he thinks about opening the door and jumping out into what little traffic there is. _You goddamn moron._

“Uh,” Bucky says. “I don’t know—”

“Not with you,” Clint says quickly, trying to backpedal. Bucky looks a little hurt. “I mean—if you _want_ —I was just thinking—I was surprised my—”

He stops, burying his face in his hands. “I’ve changed my mind,” he says into his palms. “You can crash the car.”

Bucky laughs, and Clint chances a peek at him through his fingers. He doesn’t look offended anymore. Just amused.

“I’m not crashing the car,” he says. “Why are you thinking about sex?”

“Nope.” Clint shakes his head. “Change of subject, right now.”

“I want to know.”

“We’re going to pretend that never happened,” Clint insists. “Please?”

Bucky side-eyes him, then nods once. “Later, then.”

“Or never,” Clint counters.

Bucky laughs again. “We’ll see.” He pokes Clint in the arm. “Talk about something else, then.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You?”

“What about me?”

“Anything. I just...I don’t know anything about you.” He scratches his head. “I’d talk about me, but I don’t know anything about me either.”

This is said in a tighter voice, and his metal hand clenches on the steering wheel. Clint reaches over and tugs at his fingers. “Easy, Robocop. Don’t break the car.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky says, but he releases his grip. “So?”

Clint sighs. “What do you want to know?”

Bucky makes an _I-don’t-know_ gesture. “Anything. I mean it.”

“Uh...” Clint tries to think. “My favorite color is purple. I’ve been working for SHIELD most of my life. I like dogs, and pizza, and coffee. I watch too many movies, and probably don’t sleep as much as I should.”

Bucky listens carefully, like Clint’s giving him details of a mission. “How do you know Natasha?”

Clint smiles. “I was supposed to kill her. She was making waves, got on SHIELD’s radar in a bad way. They sent me after her.”

“And you didn’t kill her?”

“No. I saw her in action, and I made a different call. It was a hunch, really. I brought her in instead, and we’ve been working together ever since then.”

Bucky is quiet for a while, eyes fixed on the road. His face is a blank mask, suddenly, emotions traded for stoicism in the blink of an eye. Clint doesn’t know why, until Bucky says, “Did they...hurt you?”

Clint’s baffled. “For what?”

“Not following orders.”

“SHIELD doesn’t do that,” Clint says, immediately understanding. “That’s not...they don’t do that. I had orders, yeah, but I had autonomy in the field. I could change things as I needed. I got in trouble sometimes, but they trusted me to make my own calls.”

Bucky’s hands are tight on the steering wheel again. “Oh,” is all he says.

Clint’s heart twists a little at the sight. “I take it you didn’t have the same experience.”

“You could say that,” Bucky mutters, and then clamps his mouth shut. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “That’s cool. We don’t have to.” He scrambles for something else. “Uh...wanna hear how I got into archery?”

“I’d love that,” Bucky says, relaxing a little bit.

Clint tells the story, and Bucky asks questions in all the right spots. The tension fades from him as they navigate their way through the dark roads, crossing the border into Belarus with barely a pause.

It’s after seven in the morning by the time they reach a little town called Asipovichy. Bucky pulls off the road and into an empty parking lot of a darkened building, then puts the car in park. “We should wait until dark,” he says, reaching into the backseat. “We’re about a half-hour away, I think.” He comes back up with a laptop and a USB key, handing them both to Clint. “Here’s everything Fury had on the Red Room. It’s...not a lot.”

It’s really not. There’s no layout, no description, not even a hint of what’s inside. Clint skims through the information, scowling with annoyance. “I don’t like this,” he says. “I just have this nagging feeling things aren’t going to end well.”

Bucky shifts a little in his seat, then says, “We could just...not go.”

And it’s only because _Bucky_ is the one to say it that, for a moment, Clint actually considers it. Wonders what it would be like if they just went straight to the Quinjet and flew back to the States. Helped rescue the rest of them first, and came back for her later.

Then he shakes his head. “I can’t, Bucky. I...she’s my best friend.” He closes his eyes. “We’ve been partners for years. She’d come after me, no matter what the odds were. I won’t leave her to this. I never could.”

Bucky considers this for a moment, then says, “Are you two...together?”

“You’re the only one I want to kiss,” Clint assures him. “She and I are just very, very close. She’s like my soulmate, as weird and sappy as that sounds.”

“It’s not that weird,” Bucky says, his eyes distant. “I think I might have had that once.”

Clint looks at him. “With Steve?”

“I...” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly. I just know I cared about someone once. And they tried very hard to take it away.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “They’re good at that.”

“We’ll get it back,” Bucky says, putting a hand on his knee. “Like you said.”

“I know,” Clint murmurs. “I know.” He closes the laptop, trying to shut away his feelings with it. “Alright. If we’re not going in until nightfall, what should we do then?”

Bucky gestures towards the trunk. “We should plan. We’ve got a lot of explosives back there, and you said you could make more? We need to take stock of what we’ve got, then to figure out the best strategy to get in. Also, I want to kiss you again.”

Clint glances at him, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face. “Okay,” he says. “We can do all of those things.”

They plan. They kiss. Clint gives Bucky a list and sends him into a hardware store while he scouts out a temporary base. They kiss some more when Bucky comes back, and then Clint sets about mixing up some homemade C4 as Bucky watches with increasingly wide eyes. “Where did you learn this?”

“Grew up in a circus,” Clint says. “We used explosives in a show once, and they were too cheap to buy any. So...” He shrugs. “We made some. Took some, uh...calculating. There were some casualties.” He touches his eyebrows. “But it all grew back in, so no harm, no foul.”

“You blew off your _eyebrows?_ ”

“Twice. It was a bad year.” He grins at Bucky. “Pass me the peroxide, will you?”

When nightfall comes, they carry the explosives back to the car and pack everything in as safely as they can. “Okay,” Clint says, closing the trunk. “Nothing back here will explode on its own, but please don’t drive like a maniac again. Just in case.”

“I’m hurt,” Bucky says, getting in the front. “I’m a very safe driver.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

He does drive slowly, though, which Clint appreciates. About two miles from the coordinates, they hide the car in some trees, then load up on everything they can carry. Bucky even finds a tin of camouflage paint, which he rubs over his face before handing it to Clint. It’s an _unreasonably_ hot look, and Clint has to concentrate intently on what he’s doing to keep himself from pinning Bucky against the car and kissing him.

“Okay,” he says instead, closing the tin. “Are you ready? You good on the timing and signals?”

“I’m good,” Bucky says. “I’m ready.”

They look at each other, an ocean of unsaid things between them. The tension is suddenly back in Clint’s muscles, and the anxiety, and the panic, and everything he hasn’t been allowing himself to feel in the past hours.

He _knows_ there is a very real chance this could end badly for either one of them. A massive, massive chance. If it wasn’t Natasha, he’d never even consider it.

But it is. So he steels himself, then says, “We’ll meet back here. If the other one doesn’t show up within an hour...”

“Then back to the base to wait,” Bucky says. “I know.”

“You know the Quinjet coordinates? I burned the note but—”

“I know them.”

“And you know all the codes I told you, right? All the passphrases and stuff so you can—”

“Clint,” Bucky says softly, and pulls him into a hug. It’s not comfortable—they’re both armed to the teeth, and the gear makes it awkward—but the sentiment is what matters, and Clint allows himself to relax into Bucky’s arms.

He spares a moment for amusement, remembering the way Bucky had reacted when Clint hugged him in the hotel. _Guess he’s over that._

“It’ll work,” Bucky murmurs in his ear. “Okay? We’ll get her.”

He sounds worried too, but Clint appreciates the effort behind the words. He pulls back, then presses a gentle kiss to Bucky’s mouth. “Don’t you die on me,” he orders.

“I won’t,” Bucky says, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “I still want to know why you were thinking about sex, before.”

Clint groans. “Never happened,” he says. “Not even once.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, in a perfect imitation of him, and Clint shoves his shoulder. The jokes, as stupid as they are, help him relax a little bit, and he’s so goddamn grateful.

Even if it all goes bad—even if he ends up back in Rumlow’s grasp—he at least had this. Had a week to spend with someone he cares about, a week of feeling like a person, a week of making his own choices. He knows if he’s caught that the punishment will be _horrible_ , but this...

This is worth it. Bucky is worth it. Natasha is worth it.

“Be careful,” he says. “Come back in one piece.”

“You too,” Bucky says. He leans in and kisses Clint one more time, then vanishes into the woods without a trace.

Clint slings his quiver over his back. “Alright,” he says into the darkness. “Let’s go raise a little hell.”

It takes him twenty minutes to get close enough to see the facility. The building looks a little like a factory, squat and dull and industrial. It’s not fully lit up, but there are lights on in various rooms, and if he squints he can distantly make out figures moving.

He studies the two fences in front of him. The first one is easy enough to jump, it’ll take him maybe fifteen seconds. Then there’s some no-man’s land to cross—really exposed no-man’s land, that’ll be dicey—and then another, slightly higher fence. Which is where he needs to be in about two minutes.

Clint grits his teeth and ignores every single warning bell in his head, then starts running.

Nobody shoots at him. There’s no spotlights, no alarms, no dogs, no nothing. He climbs the first fence, makes it across the empty space, and presses himself up against the second, waiting for Bucky’s signal.

_It’s too easy,_ he thinks, hating everything about this. _It’s too easy, and they know, they_ know—

A massive explosion splits the night air, big enough that Clint has to cover his face from the brightness. “Jesus,” he mutters. “What’d you do, use all of it at once?”

_Now_ there’s sirens, and lights flicking on, and the sound of voices. Clint watches the response, watches the gates open on the far side of the facility and several cars driving out. Clint immediately pulls out his wire cutters and snips a gap in the fence just wide enough for him to slide through.

There are three buildings here. He doesn’t know which one Natasha would be in, so he just takes a wild guess and heads towards the one that’s more lit up, trying to pretend he feels more confident than he really is.

He breaks a window open and crawls inside, finding himself in a hallway. It’s like a Victorian-era mansion in here, all fancy spiraling architecture and wood panels and shit. He immediately feels out of place—which is fucking funny, considering what he’s doing. “Get it together,” he mutters, and starts down the hall, stepping quietly on the plush rug covering the length of the hall.

He follows the sound of voices from upstairs, creeping up the staircase and down another hall, going until he can get close enough to make out what they’re saying. It’s Russian, and muffled through the heavy wood door, but he can get the gist of it.

_“—stay here. Nobody is to leave this room.”_

“ _Yes, Madame B,”_ comes a chorus of voices, and Clint tilts his head in confusion. _Are those...kids?_

The door opens, and Clint ducks down an adjacent hallway, tucking himself behind a massive marble statue. “You realize who this is,” says a deep voice.

A voice that Clint recognizes. _Damn. Rollins got here fast._ He’d expected it, but it’s still a little bit of a shock all the same.

“I do,” comes a clipped female voice. It makes Clint shudder a little bit. Her voice reminds him of a foster mom he once had, this super stuck-up bitch of a woman. He’d hated her. Barney had hated her. That was the first home they’d run away from together.

“You know he’s coming for Romanoff.”

“It has been taken care of.” She sounds disdainful. “I told you, we do not require your assistance. Our programming will hold. Unlike yours.”

_Programming?_

Rollins mutters something, and there’s the faint click of a lighter. “Whatever, lady. I’m here for Barton and the Asset, I don’t give a shit about you or your programming.”

Clint’s hand clenches around his bow. He’s _so_ tempted to step out and stick an arrow in Rollins, preferably one of the explosive ones. _God, it would be so satisfying to watch that bastard die._

But he doesn’t. He stays in the shadows until he hears them go down the stairs, then slips down the hallway to the room they came out of. It’s the work of a moment to pick the lock, and then he steps in, arrow nocked and ready.

A couple windows spill in enough moonlight for him to get a decent look. It’s a dormitory, very spartan in its appearance. It’s just two rows of twelve beds, all neatly spaced apart to the end of the room. They’re all the same, too. Each bed has a mattress on a metal frame, covered in white sheets topped with a grey blanket, and a handcuff dangling from the left side of the frame.

“What the fuck,” Clint mutters, stepping towards the closest bed.

The covers suddenly shift and move, and a young girl pokes her head out from under them. Clint barely cuts back a shriek as the rest of them move as well, and he’s suddenly faced with twenty-four little girls staring at him with stoic expressions.

“Uh,” Clint says, a little unnerved. “Hi?” He puts the arrow back in his quiver. He doesn’t need to shoot any little girls.

No answer.

_“I’m looking for someone,”_ he says, switching over to Russian. “ _She has red hair, she’s tall, looks scary as hell?”_

The girl closest to him nods solemnly. “Natalia,” she says, and Clint bites back a laugh.

_“Yes,”_ he says. _“Where is she?”_

“She doesn’t want to see you,” says another girl in perfect English. She shifts, getting out of bed with slow, calculated movements. She’s wearing a flowy white nightgown, and with her hair loose and her expression wide-eyed and innocent, she looks like she’s climbed out of some poltergeist horror movie or something. It’s deeply disturbing.

The rest of them start to get up too, and he looks around. “Uh. You guys don’t have to get up. I’ll just...go.” He backs up a little bit and reaches behind him for the doorknob.

“Don’t go,” says another one of the girls, moving quickly enough to put a hand on his arm. His skin crawls. “You just got here.”

“I need to find Natalia,” he says.

“We can help you,” another pipes up. “We can get her for you.”

“No,” Clint says, his anxiety kicking into high gear. This is the creepiest thing he’s ever seen in his _life_. “It’s cool. I’ll find her myself. You just...go back to bed.”

The hand on his arm tightens. “Stay,” the girl coos at him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, reaching to pull her off.

“It’s okay,” says a third one. She flashes him a smile. It’s cold, and predatory, and sends a spike of terror down his spine. “You won’t have a chance to.”

Clint suddenly realizes his mistake. Natasha had mentioned this once before. The room with the beds, and the handcuffs, and the way they had to sleep chained to the bed. He glances around at the girls, and the reddened markings around their left wrists, and finally puts two and two together. “Fuck,” he says, looking at the one on his arm. “You’re Widows.”

“Yes we are,” she says sweetly, and knees him in the groin.

Clint turns just in time to catch the brunt of it on his thigh, but it still fucking _hurts_ and he barely bites back a grunt of pain. Then they’re all on him, twenty-four little girls, and Clint doesn’t know what to do about it. He doesn’t want to hurt any of them—they’re _kids_ , and he knows they didn’t choose this life. They were forced into it like Natasha was.

So he tries to be defensive, trying to twist out of the way and slip their grabby little hands. “I don’t want to hurt you—” he says again, finally breaking out of the pack and moving down the row of beds.

One of the girls brandishes a knife at him. His knife, he realizes, patting at where he’d had it tucked into his belt. _Oh, that’s not good at all._

“I just want to find Natasha,” he says, hands out. “Please don’t make me do this.”

They just keep smiling as they advance forward, spreading out to surround him.

“I’m serious,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

No answer. Just smiling.

“Shit,” Clint mutters, and they all attack as one.

They’re fast and well-coordinated, dropping him to the floor within the first thirty seconds. Clint’s still trying not to hurt them, but they clearly don’t have the same idea. They’re _vicious_ , and brutal, and he would be admiring the effectiveness of the attack if it wasn’t so goddamn terrifying.

They strip him of all his weapons and pin him down to the floor with sheer numbers. Clint struggles, but there’s not a whole lot he can do against twenty-four little girls who aren’t afraid to kick him in sensitive spots.

“Look,” he says, and one of them sits on his chest, pressing his knife to his throat. His _own_ knife. It’s embarrassing, really. “We don’t have to—”

She presses harder, and he can feel a thin trickle of blood seep down his neck. “Time to be quiet,” she whispers, and he goes still underneath her, mind desperately trying to think of anything that will get him out of this. Anything at all. It’s looking like he’s going to have to kill them, and he doesn’t want to do that, they’re just _kids—_

“ _Up,”_ comes a commanding voice, and after a moment, the pressure against his limbs disappears. Clint scrambles to his feet and turns around, expecting to see the woman from before.

Except it’s not her.

It’s Natasha.

She looks the _same_ , exactly the same as when he last saw her. Her hair is twisted up in a red bun, and her green eyes are still vibrant, and she still looks like she could beat the hell out of him with barely an effort. Her arms are by her side, loose and ready, like she’s about to start a sparring match with him.

Clint’s never been so glad to see anyone in his _life_.

“Natasha,” he breathes, taking a step towards her. One of the girls grabs his shirt, and he stops. “Nat, it’s me. It’s Clint.”

“I know who you are,” she says, but there’s no recognition in her toneless voice. No love. “Why did you come here?”

“I came for you,” he says, reaching for her. “I came to get you, like I said. I’m sorry it took so long.”

Her mouth twitches in a sneer. “What makes you think I want to leave?”

“I—”

_Programming_ , he suddenly remembers, and his heart sinks.

“Natasha,” he says, swallowing hard. “You gotta break past it, Nat. Please. You can’t let them do this to you, you can’t—”

She takes two steps forward and kicks him in the stomach, hard enough to send him back to the floor. He wheezes hard, hand pressing over it. He’s gonna have a hell of a bruise from that.

Natasha leans over him. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she says, voice cold. “You’ll regret it.”

“I don’t care,” Clint forces out, looking up at her. “I would’ve come anyway. Every goddamn time. I will never, _ever_ leave you behind.” He struggles up to his feet, and he knows it’s only because she lets him. Which means she’s either in there, locked away somewhere, or she’s planning on beating the shit out of him.

In the end, it doesn’t matter either way. He’s here with her, and there are only two options now. He’s either going to walk out of here as a prisoner, or he’s going to walk out of here with Natasha. That’s all there is to it.

“I don’t care what you do to me,” he says to her, settling into a defensive stance. “I love you. I know you’re still in there.” He wipes some blood off his chin and looks at her. “You’re my best friend. I’m getting you back, one way or another, or I’m going to die trying.”

“That might happen,” she says, voice still like ice.

“So be it,” Clint says, and he makes the first move.

It’s not the smart thing to do. But if he’s going to have any chance of making it out alive, his best bet is to be unpredictable. To try and catch her off guard.

Except she’s Natasha Fucking Romanoff, and Clint’s pretty sure she’s never been _off guard_ in a fight in her life. Still, Clint thinks he manages pretty well to start. He hits her hard with a tackle, sending them both to the floor. “Nat,” he grunts. “It’s me. It’s Clint. You _know_ me.”

“I know who you are,” she hisses back, easily twisting out of his grip. She rolls back up to her feet and he scrambles up too, throwing a wild punch that she dodges, throwing her own more controlled punch towards his stomach. He twists out of the way, following it up with a kick that actually makes her stumble backwards.

“You know me,” he says again. “Come on, Nat, you’re stronger than this. Break out of it.”

One of the little girls starts forward, and Nat snaps out a hand to her. Clint’s eyes fixate on the white scar down her palm, and he swallows hard, remembering the image of her hand nailed to the table. _My fault. I did that._

She snarls something in Russian, something too quick for him to catch, and fixes her eyes on him again. “There’s nothing to break out of,” she says. “This is who I am. This is who I’ve always been.”

She spins into a kick that lands in his chest, shoving him down to the floor. He wheezes and rolls, using the bed frame to drag himself upright. “It’s not,” he gasps, shoving the bed at her. She just steps back gracefully. “It’s not you. You’re my best friend.” He ducks a punch. “You like black tea. You wear mismatched socks when you’re not on a mission. You like to steal my sweatshirts—”

Natasha shoves him backwards, and he flips ass-over-teakettle to the floor, narrowly missing landing on a little Widow. “Sorry,” he says to her, scrambling back to his feet.

She kicks him.

“Ow,” Clint says, automatically shoving her backwards. “Oh my god, _sorry—_ ”

“Stop that,” Natasha growls at him. “You don’t speak to them.”

“They’re little girls,” Clint says, launching himself at her. “They’re like you used to be, remember? You told me about this. You said you wanted to be better.” He blocks a punch and spins her, pushing her against the wall. “You can be better, Nat. You _are_ better. You got out—”

She ducks down, twists away, and slams his face into the wall. It doesn’t break his nose, but he feels a stream of blood start instantly. He stumbles away from her, hand pressed to his face.

“Shut up,” she hisses at him. “You know _nothing_.”

“I know _you_ ,” he shoots back, voice nasal.

“No you don’t!” Her voice is still cold, but there’s an edge of panic to it. Tightly controlled, but it’s there.

Clint holds up his hands, palms out. There’s an idea forming in his mind—a terrible one, that will probably end him being beaten to a pulp—but it’s the only thing he can think of. “You hate mushrooms, but you always order pizza with them because you know I like them. You once tried to make a soufflé in my apartment and you almost burned it down. For my birthday last year we fucked off from SHIELD for a week and went to the Caribbean, and we—”

She attacks him again, knocking him to the floor, but he doesn’t bother fighting back. He just protects his head and lets her hits fall, praying to every god he can think of that she doesn’t break any bones.

“Stole a jet ski,” he gasps out when she steps back, breathing hard. “We stole it, and spent the whole day joy-riding, and then you flirted with the guy so we wouldn’t get in trouble, and he invited us onto his yacht. I got that sunburn with the weird tan lines and you teased me about it for _months_.” He pushes himself upright, and climbs up to his feet, using the wall for support. “When Loki fucked with my head, you were the only one who understood. You said you knew what it was like—”

She screams and shoves him backwards, sending him into the wall again. It’s unhinged, really, and he thinks he might be getting through to her. _Wish it didn’t hurt so much though_ , he thinks, wincing as his head cracks against the concrete.

“I know they’ve been awful to you,” he grits out, pressing a hand against his ribs. “I know they tortured you, and I know some of it was because of me.” He braces his other hand against the wall. “And I’m sorry, Nat. I’m _so_ fucking sorry.”

She steps in close. There’s a knife in her hand now— _his_ knife again, goddamnit—and she presses it up to his throat, green eyes searching his.

“I love you,” he says. “And I promise I’m not leaving you again.”

“You can’t promise that,” she says softly.

“I can.” He doesn’t make a move to push her off. “I _promise_. I promise on everything you and I have ever done together. I promise on mushroom pizza and shitty poetry and cheap beers on the roof at midnight.”

There’s a shine of tears in her eyes, bright and reflective, and for a moment, her mask slips. He can see her underneath. _His_ Natasha.

“There you are,” he says, blinking back his own tears. “I know you’re in there. I goddamn love you, Nat. You can fucking fight this. Whatever they did, you can _fight_ it.”

There’s a thundering of footsteps, and then the door to the room bursts open. Clint barely has time to register the presence of more people before he’s yanked away from the wall, away from Natasha, and shoved down to his knees in the middle of the room.

He twists over his shoulder to look at her, but then someone forces his head back straight in time to see Rollins walk in. “Barton,” he greets. “Long time no see.”

“Could’ve been longer,” Clint says, trying to look at Nat again. “Like, a whole lifetime would’ve been great.”

Rollins rolls his eyes. “Bring him downstairs,” he orders.

Clint is hauled to his feet and shoved down the stairs. They bring him to a large entryway, with marble pillars and a black and white tiled floor. They put him on his knees again, with at least seven different guns trained on him. They don’t bother tying him up, and he doesn’t bother trying to escape. It’s not the moment.

“So,” Clint says, looking around. He doesn’t see Bucky anywhere, at least, and he desperately hopes that he managed to get away. “How ya been?”

“Shut the fuck up,” says another familiar voice, and Clint sees none other than Gibson emerge from the shadows. He looks furious, which probably has something to do with the bloody bandage wrapped around his leg. “You little bastard. You have any idea the shit you’ve put us through this last week?”

“Gibson,” Clint says. “Sad to see you. I was really hoping you died.”

“Almost did,” Gibson snarls, coming over and yanking Clint’s head back. “Bet you thought that stunt with the plane was real smart.”

Clint shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?” He pulls free and looks up the stairs as Natasha walks down, accompanied by the woman from before. She has short blonde hair, and lipstick as red as Nat’s hair. She looks regal. Perfect. Clint hates her. Especially hates the way she leans forward to whisper in Nat’s ear, and the way Nat just...obeys. No complaint, no nothing. She just goes. It hurts to watch.

“Natasha,” he says, but she doesn’t even look at him. Not until she’s standing near one of the pillars, body tense and face settled back in that mask.

Another agent piles Clint’s weapons on the floor by Rollins. “I see you got your bow back,” he says, snapping the string idly.

“Don’t touch it,” Clint says. “You’re just gonna fuck it up.” He looks at Nat again. “ _Natasha_.”

The blonde woman snaps her fingers, and one of the guys holding Clint slaps him across the face. 

“You will not speak to her,” she says. “She is above you.”

Rollins rolls his eyes again. He’s about to say something when the double doors in front of Clint burst open, letting in a blast of cool night air.

“Got him,” says a triumphant voice, and then a group of people come in. They’re dragging something behind them.

No. Not something. Someone.

Bucky.

He’s unconscious, or close to, head lolling. His jacket is gone, and his metal arm is hanging limply. There’s blood dripping from his nose too, and one of his eyes is swollen shut.

They throw him to the ground, and he lets out a broken whimper that makes Clint’s heart clench. “What did you do to him?” he asks in horror.

“Nothing yet,” Rollins says. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a red-bound book with a star on the cover. “We’ll get there.”

“Gonna read us a bedtime story?” Clint asks, eyes on Bucky. _Come on, buddy. Wake up._

As if he can hear him, Bucky groans, then slowly curls his right arm underneath him. He takes a couple deep breaths.

Rollins nudges him with a foot. “Up, Asset. Get up.”

Bucky’s hand clenches into a fist, but after he shoves himself upright. He blinks a couple times, slowly looking around the room. After a cursory glance of everyone, his eyes land on Clint. Clint can see the relief warring with the terror, and doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick over the people holding Clint in place. Threat assessment. Calculating risks.

Clint knows because it’s the same thing he’s doing. Trying to answer the question of if it’s worth it to start a fight just to get to Bucky, knowing he’ll probably lose.

After a moment, though, Bucky’s eyes settle back onto Clint. “You okay?” he asks, and Clint nods.

“Asset,” Rollins says, and Bucky looks at him. “Status report.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, and Clint nearly cheers.

“Seconded,” he adds, and Gibson smacks him in the head with his gun. “Ow, what the hell?”

Rollins nods. “Okay. Full reset, then.” He opens the book.

A trickle of fear goes through Clint, and he can see the same fear in Bucky’s eyes. Bucky tries to get up, but someone presses a taser to the back of his neck, and he collapses _hard_ , limbs twitching and shaking. Clint twists against his own captors. “Leave him alone!”

“Your boyfriend’s fine,” Rollins says dismissively. “He’s had worse.”

Clint ignores him. “Bucky!”

Bucky raises his head. “I’m okay,” he starts, and they tase him again.

“Leave him alone!” Clint yells, nearly making it up to his feet before Gibson nails him in the knee with a kick and he crashes back to the floor.

Rollins chuckles. “Stay down, Barton. It’ll all be better in a minute.” He turns a page, then in Russian, says, _“Longing.”_

Bucky goes dead still. His eyes flicker to Clint, then to Rollins.

“ _Rusted_ ,” Rollins says, and Clint doesn’t understand why, but he remembers what Brennan said about trigger words, and his heart sinks.

“Rollins,” he starts, and Gibson hits him in the head hard enough to make him lose track of time for a few seconds.

“ _Furnace_.”

There’s the sounds of a scuffle, and Clint manages to get his brain back online in time to see Bucky getting to his feet, punching and kicking everyone in reach. His metal arm is dead, hanging limply at his side, and it’s throwing him off balance. But he’s _moving_ , and if he can move, so can Clint.

“ _Daybreak_ ,” Rollins yells over the sound of the fight, and Bucky flinches hard. “ _Seventeen_.”

Clint throws an elbow back into someone’s gut, then throws himself forward, wrenching free of the hands holding him. He uses the momentum to get to his feet and dives for Rollins, intending to knock the book from his hand. He doesn’t know what the words mean, or how many there are, but he’s _very_ sure he doesn’t want to hear the end of it .

“Oh no you don’t,” Gibson snarls, snagging his shirt. “Get back here, fucker.”

“Let go,” Clint snarls back, twisting to free himself. “You fucking asshole, I’m going to _kill_ you—“

But then there are more hands on him, pulling him back by sheer force of numbers, shoving him back to the floor as Rollins calls, “ _Benign. Nine. Homecoming._ ”

Bucky lets out a ragged yell. It’s not even a word, it’s just an animal sound, full of primal rage and fear, and it’s the worst thing Clint’s ever heard in his _life_. He calls Bucky’s name, desperate and frantic, and their eyes meet across the room. There’s so much _fear_ , and now resignation, and Clint can hardly stand the sight of it.

_This is my fault. I brought him here. I brought him into this._

A gun presses against Clint’s spine. “Try it, motherfucker,” Gibson hisses in his ear. “We won’t kill you, but I’ll sure as fuck cripple you.”

Clint freezes, eyes still on Bucky. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, so low that he’s sure Bucky can’t hear him. “God, I’m _sorry_.” He fights back the sob that threatens to erupt from his chest. He’d _known_ this might happen, but that still doesn’t make it any less painful. Or any less his fault. 

He sees it, now. How stupid it was to come here. He should’ve listened to everyone. Should’ve waited and come back with backup and decent intel, rather than running in half-cocked with no plan. All he’s managed to do is deliver Bucky right back to Hydra’s arms, and they’re going to wipe him again, take his words and his memories, and Clint will be right back where he started—

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers back, going still. “Clint. It’ll be okay.”

“ _One. Freight car._ ” Rollins snaps the book shut.

At the last word, Bucky’s face goes blank. Completely blank, like he’s not there at all. Clint calls his name and he doesn’t even look at him. Just stares straight ahead with dead eyes.

Clint blinks back tears. “Bucky,” he says desperately. “Bucky! _Look_ at me!”

Bucky raises his head, and Rollins smacks him. “No. Eyes down.”

“Bucky,” Clint says again. “Please.” He looks up at Rollins. “What was that? What did you do to him?”

“He’s a malfunctioning weapon,” Rollins says coldly. “I reset him.” He tucks the book under his arm. “Asset?”

“ _Ready to comply_ ,” Bucky says in a toneless voice.

“Bucky,” Clint whispers. “Bucky, _please_.”

Rollins grins. “Much better.” He looks at the guys holding Bucky. “You can let him go now.”

They let him go, and Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to get up, or even raise his head. He’s just...still.

“Excellent.” Rollins pulls out his gun. “Let’s test it.” He aims at Bucky’s arm.

“No!” Clint yells. “Rollins! Don’t!” Rollins glances at him. “You don’t have to—you’ve got us, okay? We’re here. Please don’t hurt him.”

“No, I’m gonna,” Rollins snaps. “I’m gonna hurt him, and I’m gonna hurt her, and I’m gonna make you watch every goddamn second of it, because it’s your fucking fault. You did this. I want you to remember that.”

“No!” Clint pulls violently, hard enough to get an arm free, and starts to get to his feet—

The gunshot is muffled, but it might as well be a bomb to Clint’s ears. He cringes as Bucky flinches, just barely, and blinks down at the wound in his arm.

“You _asshole_ ,” Clint rages, pulling against Gibson. “He didn’t fucking do anything, he’s a person, you can’t just—“

“He’s not a person,” Rollins says, taking aim again. “He’s just a weapon. A thing. I’m just testing his calibration.”

“He—“

Rollins fires again. He misses, but the bullet shatters the tile between Bucky’s knees, and ricochets off his metal arm. “Something you wanted to say?”

“Please stop,” Clint says, settling immediately. “God, Rollins. Please.”

Rollins looks at him, an interested expression crossing his face. Then he looks at Bucky. “You know,” he says slowly. “I was joking, earlier, when I called him your boyfriend. But you two—“ he breaks off with a delighted, cruel laugh. Clint closes his eyes at the sound. “But you really are, aren’t you? You actually care about him.”

There’s no point in denying it. It’s clear to the whole damn room. But there’s not any point in agreeing, either, so he just keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on Bucky, who’s just sitting there and looking at his bleeding arm.

“Rumlow‘s gonna be heartbroken,” Rollins sighs. “Poor kid really has a thing for you. Told me to treat you extra nicely on the way back.”

“He doesn’t give a shit about me,” Clint snaps. “He wants me back in one piece so he can break me himself. But he didn’t before, and he sure as hell won’t get another chance.”

He looks at Bucky’s wound. It’s still bleeding, although it’s already slowing down. Just a flesh wound, then. Nothing major hit. He’ll be okay.

Well. Not okay. Neither of them are going to be okay.

_I’m so sorry, Bucky._

“I don’t know,” Rollins is saying. “I know you don’t believe in no-win situations, but we’re holding all the cards here, sweetheart.” He gestures to the room. “We’ve got you, we’ve got the Asset, and we’ve got the Widow.”

“You do not have the Widow,” snaps the regal blonde woman. “She will not be going with you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rollins says. “We know. I’m making a point.” He smirks at Clint. “So. You can fight, and watch your friends get hurt, or you can come quietly and I might leave them alone. What’s it gonna be?”

Clint locks eyes with Bucky, who suddenly looks terrified behind the blankness. His eyes flick up to meet Clint’s and he shakes his head once, just barely—a movement so slight Clint’s almost not sure if it even happened. “Bucky,” he starts. “Bucky, _please_. You can fight it.”

Gibson hits him again. “Don’t talk to it.”

Heart wrenching, he glances at Natasha. She looks back at him, a mirror of the blankness on Bucky’s face. His heart twists in his chest. “Nat,” he says brokenly.

“I’m bored, Barton,” Rollins says. “Make a choice.”

Natasha holds his gaze a moment longer. Then her eyes flick down to her hand and back up, so quick that Clint’s not sure if that happened either. He lets his gaze drift, sliding over her until he gets to her hand.

Her fingers slowly curl, thumb and pinky tucking up, leaving three fingers extended. Like an M shape.

Or no—

It’s a W. W for Widow.

Their go-ahead signal. Their okay signal. He’s seen it a thousand times, on every mission where she could hear him, but couldn’t talk back. He’s seen it in person, and through a sniper rifle, and he knows the words that go along with it.

_You okay down there, Nat? Give me a W._

She’d figure out a way to flash it to him—maybe by brushing her hair back, or scratching her shoulder, or adjusting a dress. Subtly letting him know that she’s okay, that she doesn’t need an extraction.

He’s got his own, too. _Either give me an H or talk to me, Barton. Otherwise I’m coming in there after you._

Clint looks at her again, then lets his own hand slide into an H. He thinks he might be imagining the flash of triumph in her eyes, but he hopes he’s not. If he’s got Nat on his side, they might have a shot. A long, _long_ shot, but even a glimmer of hope is better than nothing.

“I’ll come quiet,” he says to Rollins. “Please don’t hurt anyone.”

Rollins claps. “There’s a good boy.” To the others, he says, “Alright. Get them all in the trucks.”

They haul Clint up, and he doesn’t fight. Bucky gets to his feet on his own, following Rollins’s murmured orders. He still looks dead, eyes void of any kind of expression.

“Bucky,” Clint whispers, getting another whack on the head for his trouble. “Bucky, come on, you can _fight_ it!”

“No he can’t,” Gibson hisses in his ear. “He’s ours. Just like Cap is ours, and just like you’re gonna be.” He chuckles. “Can’t wait to play with you once you’re all new and shiny and empty. Gonna fill you up with more than just trigger words, if you get my meaning.”

Clint slams his head back into Gibson’s nose. He hears the satisfying _crack_ , and doesn’t bother to hide his manic grin, although it drops the moment he sees Rollins press a gun to Bucky’s stomach.

“Try it again, Barton,” is all he says. “I dare you.”

“Don’t,” Clint says, eyes on the gun. “Don’t, I’m sorry. Please.”

Rollins smirks and pulls it away. “To the trucks,” he says.

Natasha steps forward and takes him, stepping in front of the other agents until she’s the only one holding him. “Nat,” he whispers at her, trying to turn and see her face. “Nat, I—”

“Be ready,” she breathes in his ear, so quiet that he’s not sure if she said it at all.

They take him outside, Bucky trailing behind with Rollins. There’s three trucks back here, like the ones they used at the airport.

One of the agents steps forward to open the doors. As he does, Natasha smoothly steps back, tugging Clint with her. It looks like a simple readjustment, but it changes their position in the group, and turns them both just slightly out the immediate line of fire.

Adrenaline dumps into Clint’s veins, and he shifts his stance, already eyeing the gun he’s going to grab.

“Get him in there,” Rollins yells, and Clint’s hands clench into fists. _Now or never,_ he thinks, locking eyes with Nat.

She blinks once at him, and suddenly the mask is gone, traded for _his_ Natasha in a single heartbeat. She smiles at him, sharp and deadly and ready for a fight.

_That’s my girl_. He grins back, asking a silent question. _Now?_

“Now,” she agrees, and with a single smooth motion, she turns and punches an agent in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He raises his eyes to Bucky’s. “He said he believed in me,” he says softly. “Nobody had ever said that before. And then he proved it. He went to bat for me, over and over, and he turned me into what I am today. He’s the reason I have Natasha. He’s the reason I have the Avengers. He gave me a place to belong.” He clenches his fists. “I don’t care about the rest of it, Bucky. I don’t care about what Rumlow did to me. They took my home, and I fucking want it back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: [THERE IS ART FOR THIS FIC AGAIN](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678105/chapters/62743312) and it is AMAZING so please go give it all the kudos it deserves, and also check out the rest of Harishe's art because they are a very talented soul!!
> 
> (and [here is the rebloggable tumblr post](https://harishe-art.tumblr.com/post/626090282749984768/i-did-some-more-sketch-art-for))

There’s chaos, after that.

Clint immediately grabs the gun he was eyeing, and turns, shooting two agents in the head. He aims for Rollins, but the other man ducks back inside the building before Clint can get a good line on him. Then another agent tackles Clint, and he loses track of Rollins in favor of not getting shot or stabbed.

Natasha is right next to him, a snarl on her face and green eyes narrowed in concentration. She’s such a work of _art_ when she fights, and even though Clint is distracted by his own battle, he takes a moment to admire the deadly way she’s scything through the crowd of Hydra agents.

_Fucking perfect,_ he thinks, shooting the guy she kicks his way. _I love you._

He shoots another one and spins behind a truck, crouching by the tire. After a moment, Natasha joins him. There’s blood on her face, and her lip is split, but she looks _thrilled_ , her stoic mask completely gone in exchange for that excitement that lights up her entire face.

“There’s my girl,” he says.

“Glad to have you back.”

“Glad to be back,” she says, slamming a fresh magazine into her gun. “Four left out here. A couple more went back inside.”

There’s a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, and Clint shoves her aside just in time to see a metal fist slam into the truck where her head was. He dives the other way, rolling up onto his feet in one smooth motion.

Natasha swears quietly and raises her gun, but Clint holds up a hand. “I got this,” he says, eyes on Bucky, who still looks dead inside. “Do what you need to do.”

She doesn’t question it, just vanishes from his side like a breath in the wind. He can hear the shouts of agents, and the blast of a gun, and all he can do is trust her to do her best. Right now, he’s got a bigger job to do.

“Stop,” he says to Bucky, lowering his gun a little. “It’s me. It’s Clint. You _know_ me.”

“No,” Bucky says, and steps forward. They grapple for a moment, but he disarms Clint easily, then points the gun at his face. “I don’t.”

“You do.” Clint puts his hands up, keeping eye contact, frantically trying to think of ways to break the conditioning. He talked Nat out of hers, but he doesn’t have the same history with Bucky, despite how close they’ve gotten in a week.

He tries anyway. “You _know_ me. We came here together, Bucky.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He reaches forward and grabs Clint’s arm. “Come with me.”

_Cognitive recalibration_ , Clint thinks desperately, remembering how Nat had knocked Loki loose from his own head. He doesn’t _want_ to give Bucky more head trauma, but if it’ll break him out of the Winter Soldier—

Clint fights him for a few steps, putting as much resistance into it as possible. Then, when Bucky scowls and pulls harder, Clint steps into it, going from pulling to pushing in the space of a single breath. It unbalances Bucky enough for Clint to knock him down to the ground, sending the gun skittering across the concrete walkway.

Bucky manages to keep from cracking his head against the ground, although it’s a close thing. “Sorry,” Clint says, and Bucky’s face just twists in a snarl before he shoves Clint hard enough to throw him to the side. They both scramble to their feet, facing each other, eyes locked.

“I don’t know you,” Bucky says. “I don’t—I don’t know anyone.”

“Yeah, you do,” Clint says. “Come on. You broke out of this once, you can do it again. You’re more than what they made you.”

Someone else runs at him—some agent with a knife in one hand and a death wish in the other. It’s sloppy, and uncontrolled, and Clint just ducks, easily tossing the guy over his shoulder. “Stay down,” he says, and looks back up at Bucky. “We ran away together,” he says. “We stole two planes, remember? You’re an ace pilot, but you suck at driving, and you—”

A bullet slams into the ground by his feet, and Clint looks up in time to see Rollins stepping out from behind the doors, gun raised and face furious. “That’s enough of that,” he says. “Asset, grab him.”

Clint steps backwards. “I know you’re in there,” he says. “You said you wanted—”

This time, the bullet hits his arm, tearing through his flesh like a knife through butter. The flare of pain is bright and immediate, and Clint barely cuts off his pained yell, good hand coming up to cover it automatically.

“That was a warning,” Rollins says. “I have to bring you back to Rumlow alive, but if you keep making trouble, I sure as fuck ain’t gonna bring you back unharmed.” A couple other agents emerge from the shadows, guns aimed at Clint and Bucky.

“I thought he wanted me in one piece,” Clint says, blinking back tears of pain. _Fuck_ , he hates getting shot. “Kid gloves, remember?”

“He’ll deal with it,” Rollins says. He glances around at the bodies strewn around the grass and shakes his head, chuckling a little bit. “I gotta say, I’m a little impressed.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Clint says, not taking his eyes off Bucky. “Come on, Bucky—”

Rollins sighs. “Asset, grab him.”

Bucky steps forward, reaching for Clint. Clint ducks it and moves backwards. “Don’t,” he says. “Bucky.”

Bucky reaches for him again, and Clint lets go of his wound, aiming a bloody fist to Bucky’s face. “Sorry,” he says, and Bucky’s expression twists in confusion as he chops down onto Clint’s arm, knocking the blow to the side. Clint throws one with his other hand, wincing at the flare of pain in his wound. “Bucky, please—”

“Stop calling me that,” Bucky growls, blocking that one too. He wrenches it off and to the side, then follows that move with a solid kick to the stomach, sending Clint flying backwards across the ground.

Clint hits the concrete and rolls, gasping for air like a fish. “Ow,” he wheezes.

Bucky strides after him, long confident steps, and reaches down to drag him to his feet. “Stop fighting,” he says in Clint’s ear. “You can’t win.”

“Says who,” Clint gasps, and throws an elbow to his gut. It’s weak, and not his best move, but it catches Bucky by surprise enough that his grip slackens. Clint immediately steps to the side, freeing himself enough to put a few stumbling steps between them—

Then he trips over a body, and falls back down onto his wounded arm, because of course he fucking does. The pain of it is like an explosion in his mind, brilliant and fiery and _awful_ , sharp enough to make him gag with it.

“For fucks sake,” he hears Rollins say. His boots come into Clint’s field of vision, and he nudges Clint over onto his back. “Barton, just stop. You fucking lost.”

“Have not,” Clint shoots back, although it’s pretty clear he has. He’s dizzy, and losing blood, and he’s still having trouble breathing from the kick to the stomach. He turns his head until he can see Bucky. “Bucky, come on, you _know_ me—”

“I don’t know you,” Bucky says, but it sounds different. Less certain. And he’s looking down at Clint, a hint of confusion in his eyes, like maybe there _is_ something he recognizes after all.

“Fuck this,” Rollins says. “I swear—” He stops, looking over his shoulder as the sharp crack of gunfire echoes through the open doors behind them.

_Go, Nat,_ Clint thinks, letting a cold smile split his face.

“Sounds like trouble,” he says. “You should go check that out.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rollins growls. He reaches down and grabs Clint’s hair, yanking him upright. “On your goddamn feet, Barton.”

Clint grabs at his wrist with blood-slick fingers, stumbling upright with the force of Rollins’s pull. He half-expects to be hurled into the back of a truck, but instead Rollins drags him back inside the mansion, shoving him down to the floor by one of the pillars. “You four stay on him,” he snaps, and four more agents step over to train their guns on him. “If he moves, shoot him somewhere non-lethal.”

“How nice of you,” Clint mutters, and gets a boot to his ribs for his effort. Then Rollins disappears through a door, and Clint takes a moment to glance around. The foyer is littered with bodies, the air thick with the scent of coppery blood. His weapons are still in a pile over by the stairs, but there’s a body only ten feet or so from him, and it’s still got a gun clutched in its hands. If he moves quick enough—

“Don’t even think about it,” one of the agents says. “We _will_ shoot you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Clint says wearily, trying to think of a way out of this. He’s gotta break through to Bucky somehow, has to _make_ him remember. That’s the only shot they have.

Bucky drifts quietly through the main doors, moving to stand by one of the bodies. He looks down at it blankly, then steps over it and leans against the wall.

“Bucky,” Clint says, and his eyes flick over to Clint. “You—”

One of the agents kicks him. “Don’t talk to it.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says. “Come on, buddy, you gotta break out of this. I need your help.”

“I don’t know you,” Bucky murmurs, but he sounds even less sure than he did a minute ago.

Rollins comes back into the foyer, looking even more pissed off. “You and you, go upstairs,” he snaps at two of the agents. “They need help. I’ll handle Barton.”

They glance at each other, and one says, “But Romanoff—”

“I gave you a fucking order,” Rollins growls, finger twitching on his gun. After a moment’s hesitation, both agents make their way towards the stairs.

The second they move, Clint scrambles forward and dives for the nearest gun. It’s a stupid move, and he doesn’t expect it to work, even as the remaining two agents snag him and yank him backwards, shoving him to his knees.

“Give it up, Barton,” Rollins says, sounding exasperated. “Don’t make me shoot you again.”

“So do it,” Clint says as a gun pokes the back of his head. “If I bleed out before you take me to Rumlow, all the better for me.”

“No.” Rollins shakes his head, suddenly looking thoughtful. “I think we’ll try something else.” He whistles sharply, and Bucky looks at him.

“What are you—” Clint starts.

“Put a knife to your throat,” Rollins says, and for a moment Clint thinks he’s talking to him. But his eyes are on Bucky, and after a brief hesitation, Bucky pulls a knife from one of the nearby bodies on the ground and holds it to his own neck.

“No, wait—” Clint starts, and looks over at Rollins. “What are you—” He extends a desperate hand towards Bucky, despite knowing he’ll never cross the distance in time. “You’re not gonna kill him, he’s your fucking Asset, you—”

“No, I’m not,” Rollins says. “But I can do a lot to him without killing him. Asset, stab yourself.”

Bucky flips the knife in his hand and stabs himself in the leg without hesitation.

“What the fuck!” Clint yells, trying to scramble to his feet.

Rollins grabs his jacket and shoves him back down. “That’s just a taste,” he says. “An easy one, too. He’ll do any damn thing I tell him to. So if you want him to stay alive, I suggest you give up and come with me right the fuck now.”

“No fucking way,” Clint snarls, practically vibrating with the desire to go to Bucky, who’s staring down at his leg like he’s never seen it before. “I’m not going back to Rumlow, and you’re not taking Bucky. Me and him and Nat are walking out of here together, and that’s what’s gonna fucking happen.”

“Other leg, Asset,” Rollins says, and Bucky stabs himself in the other leg. He doesn’t even make a sound as he does it, just briefly closes his eyes at the shot of pain. Barely longer than a blink. In any other world, Clint would just assume he’s tough as nails. But with the way his eyes flicker over to Rollins, assessing his reaction, he bets that there’s some kind of punishment involved with showing pain.

That only fuels the anger more, and Clint starts to get up to his feet, struggling against the agents holding him down. He’s gonna grab a gun, or a knife, or a fucking chunk of rock, and he’s going to _kill_ Rollins—

“Asset,” Rollins starts, and Clint instantly drops back to his kneeling position. “There you go, Barton. You see how this works? You try to act up, and I make your boyfriend hurt himself. He can take a lot, you know. I’ve see it. They drummed that into his fucking brain from day one. Order only comes through pain.”

“That’s a whole bunch of bullshit,” Clint snaps, wavering a little bit as he grabs his arm. He needs to get decent pressure on this wound, sooner rather than later. They won’t let him bleed to death, but there’s a very real chance this is going to end with him passing out. “You’re a whole bunch of bullshit.”

“Believe what you want,” Rollins says, with the smug smile of someone who knows they’re holding all the cards. “But look at where you’re kneeling, sweetheart.” Clint shudders hard at the word. “Order is what’s winning the game.”

Clint looks desperately at Bucky, who is staring into space. He’s pulled the knife out now. It’s back against his throat, dripping red blood down his fingers.

“But we were making a list,” Clint whispers, and it’s stupid, but it’s the only thing he can think of. Bucky has a knife to his own neck, and a dead look in his eyes, and neither of them will probably ever make it out of Hydra’s grasp again —  


“The fuck are you talking about?” Rollins snaps. “What list?”

“Of things he likes,” Clint says, the words barely audible. “We were gonna try guacamole.”

Bucky blinks. A confused look crosses his face, like a flash of lightning.

“What the fuck?” Rollins asks, but Clint’s not listening. There’s a glimmer of something in those blue eyes. A tiny shred of hope. A spark of life.

“James Bond movies,” he whispers. “The really terrible ones. I’ve got a drinking game.”

“Stop talking to him,” Rollins smacks his gun against Clint’s head. “Not another word, or I’m going to have him start cutting off his own fingers.” He smirks. “Do you think they’ll grow back? I’ve never tried, but I bet—”

“Stop it,” Clint interrupts. “Just—fuck it, just stop. You win, okay?” He holds up his hands, one clean, one red with blood. “Just _stop_.” He swallows hard, glancing up at Rollins. “Stop hurting him.”

“I’m not,” Rollins says. “You are. All you gotta do is behave yourself, Barton. We’ve been over this shit and I’m tired of it.”

There’s more gunfire from up the stairs, and distant yelling. Rollins mutters something, then gestures to the two agents. “Get him in a truck,” he says. “Don’t take your eyes off him. Shoot him if you have to. Asset, come with me.”

“No,” Bucky says. It’s fast, and short, like he didn’t mean to say it, and a look of terror crosses his face.

Rollins stares at him. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Bucky stares right back. “I don’t...”

“He’s not stable,” one of the other agents says, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “It’s been too long since he was wiped.”

“Shut up,” Rollins says. “Asset, I gave you an order. Come over here.”

Bucky’s hand tightens around the knife, knuckles white. “I’m not stable,” he says slowly, and with his other hand he gestures at Clint. “I _know_ him. Why do I know him?”

“Because we—” Clint says, and Rollins hits him hard enough to make him lose track of time for a few moments. He forces his brain back online in time to hear Rollins shout something, and see Bucky wince hard, one hand pressed his head.

“You know me,” Clint says, catching the next hit on his arm. It hurts like a _bitch_. “You wanted to be unstable, you told me—”

Rollins fires his gun. The bullet misses Bucky, but it’s a close thing, and Clint instantly clamps his mouth shut. He just stares across the room at Bucky, hoping against everything that maybe, just _maybe_ —

“Yes,” Bucky murmurs, and his face suddenly changes, the blankness slowly vanishing. Clint can almost _see_ the light coming back into his eyes, like a sunrise coming over the horizon. 

He looks at Clint. “James Bond movies,” he says hesitantly, tilting his head to the side. “And...margaritas?”

Clint lets out a relieved laugh. “As many as you want,” he promises. “You can kiss me in between them.”

“Christ,” Rollins growls. “I don’t get paid enough for this shit. Asset—”

Bucky cuts him off. “No.” He shakes his head hard, like he’s trying to clear water from his ears. “I’m not—I’m not your Asset.”

“You’re whatever the fuck I tell you to be,” Rollins says. “ _Rusted_.”

“No!” Clint yells, and he struggles in their grip, having no plan beyond getting Rollins to stop saying those words. 

But Bucky’s faster. He flips the knife in his hand, steps forward, and in one perfect movement, hurls it across the room.

It’s almost in slow motion, really. Clint watches it turn end over end, gleaming underneath the lights of the foyer, sharp and deadly as it flies through the air. Clint watches, and he waits and he knows—he _knows_ —that it’s not going to miss.

And it doesn’t.

It lands dead center in Rollins’s throat, embedding itself in the flesh with a soft thump. He chokes, eyes going wide, and raises his hand to it, fumbling at the handle.

“I’m not your fucking asset,” Bucky says again, voice like steel. “I’m not your fucking anything.”

Rollins tries to say something around the knife, but it just comes out as a garbled noise. He sinks to his knees, then down to the floor, blood gushing around the wound. It pools on the floor, the bright red a stark contrast to the while tile.

There’s a beat of silence, where Clint and both agents stare at Rollins, watching him struggle. Then Clint twists hard and jabs his elbow into the one on his left, nailing him in the groin. The guy shouts and his hand goes slack on his gun. Clint rips it away from him, shoots him in the stomach, then falls backward and nails the other one in the head.

He scrambles to his feet and backs up towards Bucky, automatically checking the perimeter and clearing his corners. When no immediate danger presents itself, he glances down at Rollins, who is still staring at him, eyes wide.

It only takes a minute for him to die. Clint thinks he should maybe feel something—a flash of sympathy, a hint of kindness—but he doesn’t. He watches Rollins take his last gargling breaths on the floor, and there’s nothing in his heart except a sick satisfaction, and a furious desire for _more_. 

Only when his last gasp echoes through the room does Clint turn to Bucky, who is still standing over by the door.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Bucky is staring at Rollins. After a moment, he nods.

“You know who you are?”

“I’m Bucky,” he says, eyes moving to Clint.

“Yeah.”

“I know you.”

“Yeah.” Clint glances up as more gunfire echoes overhead. Two sharp cracks, like a double tap. _Nat_.

Bucky carefully limps towards him, threading his way between the bodies that litter the floor. He stops within arms reach of Clint, blue eyes studying him intently. Clint bites his lip and waits, unsure of what to say. If there’s anything he even _can_ say.

Bucky reaches out with his right hand and gently traces it over Clint’s face, fingers barely skimming over him. His eyebrows furrow, like he’s trying to remember something. “I kissed you?”

“You did.” Clint tries for a smile. “A lot. You’re good at it.”

Bucky nods again, still searching his face. After a moment, he splays his palm against Clint’s cheek, gently tilting his head. Then he leans forward and presses his mouth against Clint’s.

It’s hesitant, like their first kiss on the train was. More of a question than anything else. Clint holds perfectly still, letting Bucky control it.

Bucky pulls back after a few seconds, and studies him again. “You’re Clint,” he finally murmurs. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Clint says for the third time, his knees wobbling a little bit. “That’s right.”

“I know you,” Bucky says, a note of wonder entering his voice. “I _know_ you.”

He pulls Clint forward, wrapping him in a tight hug, and it’s all Clint can do to stay upright as a wave of relief slams into him. He _melts_ into Bucky’s embrace, dropping his head down onto his shoulder as he sags into Bucky’s arms.

“You know me,” he agrees, and all he can think is _thank god._

Clint doesn’t know how much time passes there, wrapped in Bucky’s arms. He thinks it might be an eternity—and part of him wishes it could be, really. He would happily stay here like this forever.

A thudding noise makes them break apart, and Clint looks up the stairs. “Nat,” he says, stepping back from Bucky. “We gotta help, come on—”

He pushes away from Bucky and bolts over to the stairs, stopping only to grab his bow and quiver. Bucky follows after him, scooping up a gun as he goes. Clint slings the quiver over his shoulder as they book it up the stairs, following a trail of blood and the sounds of fighting.

He kicks open a door at the end of the hall, revealing some kind of large classroom. There’s a dozen desks, and a chalkboard, and an old-school movie projector in the corner. Natasha is standing behind the desk at the front of the room, one arm wrapped around some guy’s neck, the other pointing a gun at the three people opposite her.

“Down!” Clint yells, and she lets go of the guy, dropping to the ground without hesitation. Clint takes out the two on the left, and Bucky nails the other two. It’s over in seconds, all four bodies falling to the ground in a pile of bloody limbs.

Nat pokes her head up from behind the desk. “Took you long enough,” she says, glancing back and forth between them before aiming a gun at Bucky.

Clint immediately steps in front of him, hand outstretched. “He’s with me.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“I trust him.” Clint meets her eyes. “Natasha. He’s with me.”

She studies him for a second, a hard look in her eyes. It’s definitely her, definitely his Nat, but he feels like there’s something a little off about her. Something changed, maybe for the worse, and definitely for forever.

_You’ve changed too_ , he thinks. _You’re not the same guy you were before this started._

Still, he’s not going to just let her shoot Bucky. So he waits, hand out, a tenseness settling into his muscles.

“Fine,” she says after a moment, and lowers the gun.

Clint lets out a little sigh of relief and drops his arm. He knows there’ll be questions later, but for the moment, she’s on board. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Nothing that won’t heal.” She looks at his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

“Huh?” He looks at his arm. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Here,” Bucky says, and kneels down by one of the bodies. There’s a tearing of fabric, and then he comes back up with a non-bloodied section of the guy’s shirt. “The bullet went through, so it’s just a flesh wound. I can tie it off. It won’t be perfect, but you’ll be functional.”

“Functional,” Clint mutters, but lets Bucky wrap up his arm. “Just got you _out_ of saying that.”

Natasha is watching them, a curious look on her face. “There’s something I need to take care of,” she says after a moment.

“More agents?”

She shakes her head. “All dead or gone, as far as I can tell. These were the last ones. Did you kill Rollins?”

“He did,” Clint says, thumbing at Bucky. “It was awesome.”

Bucky smiles slightly as he ties off the bandage. “Felt good, too.”

“What do you need to do?” Clint asks.

Nat glances out the open door. “There’s someone who needs to die,” is all she says, and Clint decides not to pursue it further. She holds out a hand. “Do you have a knife?”

Bucky wordlessly hands her one. She takes it. “Okay,” she says, flipping it in her hand. “I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”

“And if it’s longer?”

“It won’t be,” she says, before stepping forward and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “It’s good to see you, Clint.”

“You too,” he murmurs, fighting back the urge to hug her forever. “Five minutes, or I’m coming after you.”

She smiles, then disappears out the door. Clint retrieves his arrows and sticks them back in his quiver. “Let’s go,” he says to Bucky. “We can pick up some guns and shit from downstairs. Did you use all the explosives?”

“I did. You said you wanted a distraction.”

“I did say that.” He scoops up a gun from one of the bodies.

Bucky gestures towards the hallway. “We should check the rest of the doors. See if there’s more people, or things we can grab.”

Clint nods and moves into the hall, arrow nocked and ready. “If you open one and there’s little girls behind it, just close it and run away.”

Bucky laughs quietly. “Are you afraid of little girls?”

“Twenty-four Black Widows in training? Of course I am, I’m not an idiot.” He kicks open a door and steps in, clearing the room. This one is empty, nothing in it except a metal chair bolted to the floor, affixed with scary-looking restraints. Clint tries not to think too hard about that.

The rest of the doors are locked. He debates picking them for a moment, then decides against it. They don’t really have the time for it. Better to just go downstairs and salvage some weapons, then wait for Nat.

As soon as they get into the foyer, Bucky heads for Rollins’s body and pulls the red book out of his jacket. He hands it to Clint. “You should hold onto that.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I trust you.” He kneels next to another body, rifling through the pockets. Clint swallows down his emotions at those words and tucks the book into his own jacket. He wonders what else is in it, if there’s more instructions, more brainwashing, or maybe ways to remove the conditioning—

A creak of the stairs has them both spinning, weapons aimed up. Clint expects to see Nat, but instead, it’s two of the Widows. They’re on the landing, completely expressionless, hands tightly gripping each other. The moonlight from the window behind them illuminates their white dresses, making them look even more ghostlike.

Clint scowls. “If you tell us to come play with you,” he says, “I swear to everything holy I will drop you right there.”

Bucky pushes his arm down. “They’re children.”

“They tried to kill me.”

_“Good practice,”_ one of them says sweetly, offering him a smile. It’s horrifying.

“See?” he says to Bucky. “They’re evil.”

“Aw, Barton,” says another voice, and Clint whips around to see Gibson stumbling through the doors behind them. He’s got a nasty smile plastered on his face, and one hand pressed to a wound on his stomach. Clint can see the shine of blood around his palm. “Didn’t know you were afraid of little girls.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Clint says, glaring at Gibson. “What does it take to kill you? Real question.”

Gibson glares right back. “You killed Rollins,” he says. “Rumlow’s gonna be _pissed_.”

“Technically, he killed Rollins,” Clint says, pointing at Bucky. “I just watched.”

“You’re both gonna regret this,” Gibson snarls, and fumbles at his holster for his gun. “Gonna take you back, and—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clint says, and does what he’d promised himself he’d do a week ago on the plane—he looses an arrow into Gibson’s heart.

It’s not _quite_ as satisfying as watching Rollins die, but it feels damn good anyways. Gibson chokes a little, stumbling backwards with the force of it. “You—” he starts, and Clint puts another one between his eyes before he can finish his sentence.

“Nice shot,” Bucky murmurs, glancing at him.

“Thanks.” Clint glances back over at the Widows, who are still just watching with expressionless faces. They’re still terrifying, but they don’t seem like an _immediate_ threat, so he goes back to searching pockets, trusting Bucky to watch his back.

“Your friend has two minutes,” Bucky says.

“I’m aware.” Clint pulls out a set of keys, probably for the trucks outside. “She’ll be here.”

“And then what?”

“And then we go find that Quinjet, I guess.” Clint moves over to Gibson’s body. “What else can we do?”

“We could run away,” Bucky says. “Just disappear. Hide. We have your friend, now. We could just...go.”

Clint pulls his arrow out of Gibson’s chest with a satisfying squelch. “We could,” he agrees. He looks at the blood spilling over his boots. Wonders how much it will take to satisfy the rage still boiling inside him.

“But you don’t want to,” Bucky says, reading Clint like a book. Clint finds he doesn’t mind so much.

“No. I don’t.”

“Why?” He tilts his head. “For revenge?”

“A little bit, yeah.” Clint wipes the arrow off and stands up. “But not for what they did to me. For what they took.” He sticks it back in his quiver. “I’ve spent my whole life running, Bucky. I left home when I was ten. My own brother tried to kill me when we were fifteen. I never finished high school. When SHIELD found me, I had twenty bucks in my pocket and a plan to put a bullet through my head.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Clint with a steady expression and waits for him to keep going.

“I was awful,” Clint says. “I was reckless and stupid and I made a terrible agent because I didn’t trust anyone to have my back. I woke up every morning waiting for someone to either kill me or tell me to pack my bags and go. You know what they did instead?”

“What?”

“They gave me to Phil Coulson. This mild-mannered, unassuming wisp of a guy who looked like he’d never touched a gun in his life. They took my raging, angst-ridden _asshole_ self to him and said ‘here you go, do something with him before he kills someone.’ Everyone expected him to drop me within a few weeks. Me included.”

“And he didn’t?”

“No. He sat me in his office instead.” Clint remembers the conversation like it was yesterday.

_If you want to leave, you can. I won’t stop you from going. But I can see that you have the potential to be more than what you’re letting yourself be. I understand that you don’t trust easily. I understand that I haven’t proven myself to be worthy of your trust. But I’ll tell you this—I_ want _you to stay. I think you could be something amazing. Something extraordinary. All I’m asking from you is to give me some time so you can see it too._

He raises his eyes to Bucky’s. “He said he believed in me,” he says softly. “Nobody had ever said that before. And then he _proved_ it. He went to bat for me, over and over, and he turned me into what I am today. He’s the reason I have Natasha. He’s the reason I have the Avengers. He gave me a place to belong.” He clenches his fists. “I don’t care about the rest of it, Bucky. I don’t care about what Rumlow did to me. They took my _home_ , and I fucking want it back.”

He feels wrung out. Empty. He waits for Bucky to come back with a reasonable argument about how it’s safer to drop off the radar, and how they should really disappear before they all end up dying of acute lead poisoning.

But all Bucky says is, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Clint echoes. “That’s it? No arguments?”

Bucky shrugs. “I want you to be happy. So if that means running away and hiding, that’s fine. If that means destroying Hydra bases until you’re knee deep in blood, that’s fine too. And if you want to climb up out of the mud and pull their pyramid apart brick by brick...” He flashes a knife-sharp smile, full of dark promises. “Well. I’m more than happy to help with that. They took things from me too.”

There’s a creak on the stairs, and Clint looks up to see Natasha walking down them. She has a short conversation with the Widows, too quiet for Clint to catch anything. After a minute, they nod at her and go up the stairs, and Nat comes down the rest of the way.

“What did you say to them?” Bucky asks.

“Just giving them their lives back,” she says. “What they do with that is their choice.”

“How was it?” Clint asks, noting the blood _literally_ dripping from her hands. “Whatever you needed to do.”

She smiles coldly. It’s terrifying, but he loves it. “It was alright. Faster than I would have liked. Faster than she deserved.”

“Sorry,” Clint says. “If we had the time...”

“I know.” She looks between the two of them. “So what’s the plan?”

“Well,” Clint says, looking back at Bucky. “I think we just officially decided to take down Hydra. You in?”

“Of course,” Nat says. She wipes her hands on her shirt. “How are we getting out of here?”

“We’ve got a car hidden,” Clint says. “Is there anything you need from here?”

“Not a goddamn thing.” She looks around, a cold satisfaction on her face. “If it weren’t for the girls, I’d burn it to the ground.”

“We can always come back,” Clint offers.

She smiles at him again. It’s _his_ smile, but also not, and Clint wonders again just what they did to her here. The rage burns through him again, and he clenches his fists. God, he wants to kill them all. Wants to do exactly what Bucky said—climb up from the mud and pull their pyramid down, brick by brick. Wants to destroy every single one of them for daring to change Nat’s smile.

“We’ll see,” Nat says. “In the meantime...”

Clint nods. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bucky says, and the three of them walk out the front doors together, leaving a trail of bodies behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you, you deserve extra love for this turning this utter trash fire of a chapter into something remotely readable.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hernandez,” Rumlow says, a sick feeling starting in his stomach. “Put Rollins on the phone _right fucking now_ or I swear to _god_ I will come there and kill you myself.”
> 
> Hernandez audibly swallows, then says, “Rollins is dead, sir.”

The phone call comes at three in the morning. Rumlow’s not sleeping well—he hasn’t in a while, not since losing Barton—so it only takes him a few seconds to identify the ringing and answer it. “Rollins?”

“No,” says a hesitant voice on the other end. “It’s...it’s Agent Hernandez.”

Rumlow rubs at his eyes and sits up. “The fuck do you want?”

There’s a hesitant pause, and then Hernandez says, “It’s about Barton. And the Asset.”

He instantly shakes off the remnants of exhaustion and reaches over to flick the lamp on. “What? Did he find them?”

“It was like you said,” Hernandez says. “Barton tried to come for Romanoff.”

“And?”

There’s another pause. Rumlow waits, practically vibrating with impatience.

“Well, sir, I’m not very clear on the specifics of what happened, but...”

Rumlow growls in frustration. “For fucks sake, Hernandez. Do we have Barton or not?”

Yet _another_ pause. Rumlow’s about four seconds from climbing through the damn phone and strangling him when Hernandez says, “No, sir. They got away. All three of them.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Rumlow says, hand clenching around the phone. “For your own sake, Hernandez, you’d better be joking.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Hernandez sounds terrified. “From the sounds of it, Barton was able to break through Romanoff’s control, and they fought their way out.”

Rumlow fights back the urge to punch something. “And the Asset?”

“Gone as well. He went with them.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rumlow mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Put Rollins on.”

There’s dead silence on the other end.

“Hernandez,” Rumlow says, a sick feeling starting in his stomach. “Put Rollins on the phone _right fucking now_ or I swear to _god_ I will come there and kill you myself.”

Hernandez audibly swallows, then says, “Rollins is dead, sir.”

There’s more, after that, but Rumlow doesn’t hear it. He can’t hear it. There’s a ringing in his ears drowning out everything else, and the phone slips from his numb fingers, falling down to the tangled mess of covers. His chest tightens and he chokes on _nothing_ , his lungs suddenly refusing to cooperate.

Rollins isn’t dead. He _can’t_ be dead. He’s fucking—he’s _invincible_. He’s survived bullets and knife wounds and grenades and bombs; he clawed his way out of a fucking _coma_ one time, when everyone else except Rumlow had written him off, and he’d come back from that stronger than ever, and he’s not dead, he’s _not_ —

“Sir?” he hears distantly, and he forces himself to pick up the phone, forces his voice to work, because his world is spinning off its axis and he has to know, he has to know—

“Are you sure?” he whispers. “Don’t—don’t fuck with me, Hernandez. You’d better be goddamn sure, because if you’re lying to me—”

“There’s a knife in his throat,” Hernandez says quietly. “I’m sorry, sir, I know—”

“Stop,” Rumlow says, and he hates how broken that single word sounds. “Stop it.” He clenches his fist hard enough to draw blood, trying to focus on the sting of his fingernails instead of Hernandez’s words. He feels so fragile, like the pain is the only thing keeping him together and without it he’s going to shatter apart at any second.

“We have a recording,” Hernandez says. “Of what happened. If you want to see it.”

“Send it to me,” Rumlow says immediately. Maybe Hernandez is wrong, maybe it’s not really Rollins, maybe he’s still alive, maybe maybe maybe—

His tablet dings with an incoming message, and he reaches for it, dragging it into the bed with him. He watches the security footage of Rollins reading the words, watches as the familiar blankness settles onto the Asset’s face. Listens to Barton begging him to come back, calling him some stupid nickname. Then they leave the frame, only to come back a few minutes later, Rollins dragging Barton by his hair. He throws Barton on the ground, holds him in place, threatens the Asset. There’s some inaudible dialogue, then Rollins yells a trigger word, and then—

And then—

The flash of a knife is unmistakable, and so is the face Rollins makes when it slams into his throat. Rumlow’s intimately familiar with that expression, he’s killed so many people, he knows what the shock of death looks like. But to see it on Rollins—to see him choke, and fall to his knees, to see the blood pooling over his skin like a crimson waterfall—

Rumlow doesn’t realize he’s thrown the tablet until it bounces off the window with a cracking sound. The screen splinters, glass pieces flying everywhere, and Rumlow is screaming, a wordless, animal roar that feels dragged from the depths of his soul.

Rollins is dead.

Rollins is _dead_.

Rollins is dead, and the Asset is the one who killed him.

Hernandez is calling his name, but Rumlow doesn’t fucking care. He throws the phone across the room too, watching it slam into the wall, but it’s not enough to ease the rage inside him. It’s never going to be enough. He wants more. He _needs_ more. The desperate desire for revenge is searing through his veins, burning him from the inside out, and he can’t _breathe_ under the weight of it—

Rumlow scrambles out of bed, fumbling in the dim light for his clothes. He pulls them on stiffly, mechanically, trying not to think. But that scene keeps replaying itself in his mind—Rollins’s surprised face, and the shine of the knife, and the way he’d just...died. Disappeared. Gone from the world in the space of a few breaths.

_You should’ve been there,_ Rumlow snarls at himself. _He fucking died, and you. Weren’t. There._

His phone rings again, and he scoops it off the ground. It’s Sitwell—he recognizes the number on the cracked screen.

“What?” he snaps.

“I heard,” Sitwell says, voice calm and steady. “I’m sorry.”

“Save it,” Rumlow tells him. “I don’t want your fucking pity.”

“I’m not calling for that.”

“Then what the hell do you want?”

“I’m calling to tell you that whatever you’re planning to do, don’t.”

“I’m not planning a goddamn thing,” Rumlow says, as he grabs a bag from his closet and starts shoving clothes into it. It’s not until he’s zipping it up that he realizes it’s Barton’s bag, the one he’d brought from his apartment. The sight just makes him more angry.

“We have to get Project Insight off the ground, Rumlow. I need you to stay focused.”

“Rollins is _dead_ ,” Rumlow hisses. “You understand that? Rollins is dead, and your fucking Asset is the one who killed him.”

Sitwell sighs. “I _know_ that,” he says, still radiating an infuriating calm. “But you can’t just go running off after him for revenge, we need you here—”

“Fuck you.” Rumlow unzips the bag and adds a couple of guns, then tucks in his body armor for good measure. “I’m going after them, and if you try and stop me, it’s not going to end well for you.” He closes the bag and slings it over his shoulder, then takes it out to the lounge.

“Rumlow, you’re in no position to be doing this, and you know it. You’re emotionally involved and that’s—”

Rumlow hangs up and drops the phone onto the counter, then goes into the spare room. He opens the safe in the closet, digs out a couple of passports and credit cards and a burner phone. He’s had these saved for years, been building up these identities ever since he joined Hydra and Rollins told him that one day he’d need a way out—

His vision blurs, and he swipes at his eyes, furious at himself. This isn’t—he doesn’t _cry_ , that’s not who he fucking is. He’s stronger than that. He’s _better_ than that.

Rumlow scowls and slams the safe shut. There’s no time for emotions. No time to sit and feel sorry for himself. He’s got shit to get done.

He flips open the burner phone and dials a number from memory. “It’s me,” he says, as soon as the voice on the other end answers. “You heard?”

“I did.”

“I’m going after Barton. I need everything we’ve got on them. You know where to send it. And keep it quiet, you hear me? This is off the grid.”

“I can do that.” There’s typing, and then, “Sending it your way.”

“Any leads on where they might be?”

“Cameras caught Barton buying supplies at a local store in Asipovichy a few days ago. Facial recognition came back too late for us to do anything, but I’m keeping an eye on the area in case they come that way again.”

“He won’t. He’s smarter than that.” Rumlow rubs his eyebrows, trying to fight off the oncoming headache. “They’ll probably go towards Minsk. Catch a flight back here.”

“You really think they’ll come back? Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to disappear?”

Rumlow thinks about Steve Rogers, all blank and empty in the basement below the Triskelion, learning his new role in life. He thinks about Tony Stark, locked away in his tower like a princess. A fierce certainty settles into his gut, and he nods. “His friends are here. He’ll come back for them. That’s his weakness. He _needs_ people.”

Rollins’s face flashes in front of his eyes again, and he swallows back the pain of it. Shoves it down hard and smothers it with thoughts of revenge, of blood and death, of Barton kneeling at his feet while Rumlow tortures the Asset back into compliance.

_Gonna make you pay_ , he vows to himself, shoving the papers into his bag. _Both of you. Over and over and over again, a thousand goddamn times for every single second Rollins spent dying alone—_

“Rumlow,” says the agent, and Rumlow pulls himself back from the thought.

“They’ll come back,” he says again. “But I want you to start looking there anyway. Track everything we can. Every fucking camera you can get your hands on. This whole goddamn world is covered in video. I want to know the _second_ you see any one of them. Got it?”

“Got it.” There’s more typing, and then, “What are you going to do when you find them?”

“I have no fucking clue,” Rumlow says, tasting the fury in every word. “But I’m going to make them regret every goddamn moment.”

“I’ll keep you updated,” the agent says, and the line goes dead. Rumlow shoves the phone into his pocket and goes back out into the lounge.

He grabs his bag and looks around at the empty space. Remembers the day he bought the apartment, and how Rollins had made fun of the shit security, but then had come over a week later to help install the bulletproof glass. He’d ordered takeout, and actually paid for it himself, and then they’d fucked on the new bed— _gotta break it in,_ Rollins had said, _make sure it’s sturdy enough_ —and it had been _nice_ , had been decent between them, and Rumlow had wondered if maybe—

“Goddammit,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fucking—just stop it. _Stop_.”

He calls the elevator and grips the canvas strap of the bag, staring down at the purple cloth. The fury wells up in him again, hot and choking, and he grits his teeth, thinking of the moment when he’ll have Barton at his mercy again. There’s something between them, he knows, between Barton and the Asset, and Rumlow’s going to use it against them. He’s going to make them wish they’d never fucking laid eyes on each other. He’s going to _ruin_ them, ruin Barton the way he should have from the beginning. Crack him open, lay him bare, twist him up until he’s begging Rumlow for more, until he’s so broken that he thinks what Rumlow gives him is mercy.

“No mercy,” he promises darkly, stepping into the elevator. “Not until I’m satisfied.”

_And when will that be?_

He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he mutters, watching the doors close. “But it’s going to be a long, _long_ time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint resumes his earlier position, and Bucky smears the foam over him, then starts scraping his face clean in short, even strokes. He’s so careful with it, like it’s the most important mission he’s ever done in his life, intensely focused on every single movement. Clint distantly thinks a more rational person would be slightly worried—this is, after all, the world’s deadliest assassin, and he’s got a very sharp blade at Clint’s throat—but he’s not worried at all, not even a tiny bit. Because he does trust Bucky, trusts him more than just about anyone other than Nat, and the thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

Clint keeps a careful eye on Bucky as they walk back to the car. He’s not exactly sure _what_ he’s looking for—it’s not like he thinks Bucky’s gonna snap or anything, but he’s not sure how much the code words messed with all the progress they were making. But Bucky seems to be more or less back to his usual self, and he leads them to the hidden car without missing a beat. “I’m okay,” he murmurs, brushing his hand against Clint’s as they pull off the branches. “I promise.”

He gets in the driver’s side. Clint has a moment of indecision, but eventually settles on sitting up front with him. He wants to give Natasha as much space as he possibly can. Her face is perfectly neutral, but he can tell she’s unsettled. Off balance.

Which is perfectly reasonable, but Clint’s also not sure how she’ll react to him trying to get closer, so he’ll keep his distance for now. He’s learned _that_ lesson before. Once after a mission, he tried to physically comfort her when she wanted to be left alone, and earned himself a nice little black eye for that infraction. He’s learned to read her body cues since then, subtle as they are, but even those are muted right now. She’s like a statue, sitting there in the backseat, face marbled and blank and cold.

Bucky starts the car. “Where are we going?”

“Minsk,” Clint says. “That’s the direction of the jet, and I think we should probably get a motel or something.” He looks at all of them, and the amount of blood and bruises and mud on them. “We all need to shower. And get new clothes. And sleep.” He looks at Bucky’s shirt and sighs. “I _just_ bought you that.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, not sounding sorry at all.

Clint turns around to look at Nat, trying to subtly inspect her for injuries. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says.

“You good with Minsk and a motel?”

“Yeah.”

Clint studies her a second longer, then turns back to the front. “Okay.”

Bucky backs the car out and gets them onto the road, maintaining a reasonable speed for once. “Directions?”

Clint pulls out a map. “It’s about an hour from here,” he says, finger tracing over the paper.

“Is that going to be far enough?”

“Should be fine. This car is clean, and we left a lot of confusion behind us. I think we can get away with spending a couple hours there.” He looks over the two of them. “Not like we’re going sightseeing or anything. We’ll spend the day resting up, then get the hell out of here and back to the States.”

Natasha shifts slightly. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“What’s in the States?”

“Project Insight.”

She goes even stiller, if that’s possible. “That wasn’t supposed to be ready for months.”

“You know about it?”

“Fury asked me for help on it a few times. I don’t know everything, but I know enough.” Her mouth thins. “Hydra has their hands on it?”

“Yeah. They’re going to use it to eliminate everyone they think is a threat.” Clint glances at Bucky, who’s white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Seven-hundred thousand and climbing, last we heard. Fury said they’ll be launching within the next two weeks.”

Natasha nods. “When did you see Fury?”

“Day or so ago. He’s the one who gave us the info, and coordinates for a Quinjet stashed on the Lithuanian border.”

“Alright.” She leans against the door. Clint waits for her to say more, but she just stares out the window, expression unreadable. Clint feels his heart twist in his chest.

Bucky reaches over and puts a hand on his knee. “It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“It’s really not,” Clint mutters, but he puts his hand over Bucky’s anyway, winding their fingers together.

They’re all silent until they get to the edge of Minsk. They drive past a couple hotels until Clint picks one at random. He’s the most injured out of the three of them, but seeing as he’s the only one not absolutely _covered_ in blood, he volunteers to go in and get them a room. He lets Bucky and Nat in through a side door so they don’t walk through the lobby and scare the receptionist.

It’s a small room on the top floor—two beds, decent bathroom, little TV perched on a dresser. Clint drops his bag on the floor and turns to the other two. “Okay,” he says. “We need clothes, food, and first-aid supplies.” He looks down at his own arm, which is still bleeding, although not as badly as before. “I’m going to need stitches. And Bucky—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says. “I’m already healing.”

“And this isn’t my blood,” Nat says.

Clint makes a face at both of them. “Aren’t you both just fucking special?” He digs around in his backpack and pulls out the money. “Okay, I think I saw a store a couple blocks down—”

Nat takes it. “I’ll go,” she says. “You guys get cleaned up.”

“You’re covered in blood,” Clint says. “Why don’t I go, I got us the room—”

“You’re _actively_ bleeding,” she points out. “And this is more work. I’ll be fine.”

She plucks a room key and the car keys from his hand, then disappears out the door. Bucky moves like he’s going to follow her, but Clint grabs his arm. “Don’t,” he says. “She needs her space. She’ll be fine.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself rather than Bucky, but Bucky nods anyway. “Alright,” he says. “Come here. Let me see your arm.”

Between the two of them, they manage to work off Clint’s jacket and shirt, easing it over the wound. Clint has a moment to think about the _last_ time Bucky saw him shirtless, but then Bucky’s manipulating his arm, and the sharp pain of it drives any other thoughts out of his head. “Ow!”

“Sorry,” Bucky murmurs, untying the bandage. “Looks like the bleeding’s slowed down.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Still gonna need stitches, though.”

“Yes.” He probes at it gently. “This was close. Anywhere else, and we’d be in a very different position right now.”

“Rollins was a bastard,” Clint says, “but he was a damn good shot.” He hisses as Bucky turns his arm again.

“We’ll get it cleaned up.” Bucky grabs the first-aid kit from the bag, the shitty little one from the plane, and rummages through it. “Or not. There’s nothing useful here.” He pulls out a length of bandage. “We’ll just have to wrap it for now. Keep pressure on it.”

“Nat will get stuff,” Clint says, sitting down on the bed. He’s so fucking tired. “Ugh. I just want to nap.”

“You can,” Bucky says. “I’ll keep watch.” He flicks his eyes to the door.

Clint watches him for a moment. “You okay?”

Bucky shrugs. “Head hurts.”

“I’m guessing that’s from the trigger words,” Clint says.

Bucky nods. “I remember now. Remember them doing that.” He winces.

“Can it happen again?”

“Probably.” He looks distressed at the thought.

Clint reaches forward and takes his right hand “Hey,” he says, rubbing his thumb over Bucky’s battered knuckles, the bruises already fading. “It’s okay, man. You got out of it once, that means we can do it again.” He suddenly remembers the book in his jacket, and pulls it out. “You want to look at this? See if there’s anything in here?”

Bucky’s breath catches, and he lets go of Clint’s hand to take the book with trembling fingers. “Oh,” he says, voice quiet. “Um.”

“You don’t have to,” Clint adds quickly. “I can keep holding onto it.”

Bucky shoves it back at him. “Not now,” he says. “I—not now. My head hurts.”

“It’s cool,” Clint says. “I’ll take it.” He tucks it into the bag. “No worries.”

“Sorry.”

“The fuck are you sorry for?” Clint takes his hand again. “Bucky, it’s fine. I’ll hold onto it until you’re ready to look at it.”

“What if I never want to look at it?”

“Then we’ll set it on fire or throw it in an ocean or something. Or use it for target practice, or we can tear pages out and use them to give Pierce a thousand paper cuts, or make origami, or line our shoes, or...” He trails off at Bucky’s amused expression. “What?”

“You,” Bucky says fondly. “You’re just...incredible.”

Clint snorts. “Thanks?”

“I mean it.” Bucky reaches out with his metal hand and brushes Clint’s hair back, pushing it out of his eyes. “Do you want me to cut this now?”

“I—” Clint looks around. “Do you even have scissors?”

In answer, Bucky pulls a pair of scissors from his pocket. Clint stares at them for a moment, then just decides not to ask. “Okay. Sure. Go ahead.”

“Bathroom,” Bucky says, and tugs Clint’s hand. They go into the bathroom, and Bucky sits him on the toilet, then drapes a towel over his shoulders.

“Fancy,” Clint says. He rubs a hand over his face, which is reaching caveman levels of scruffy at this point. “I should shave, too, I guess.” He eyes Bucky. “If you pull out a straight razor, I’m gonna have questions.”

Bucky ducks his head a bit, then reaches in his other pocket, producing a sleek black straight razor. “I lifted it off one of the Hydra guys,” he says. “He used to...threaten me with it.” He taps it against his palm, expression distant. “He won’t be doing that again.”

Clint starts to say something, then shakes his head, unable to keep the grin off his face. “You’re something else, buddy.” He tugs the towel around his shoulders. “You know how to use it?”

“I think so,” Bucky says, flicking it open. He holds it up to the light. “You want me to?”

Clint looks at the shine against the silver metal, and feels his heart beat a little faster at the thought. “As long as you promise not to go all Sweeney Todd on me, sure.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It was a movie. He murdered people with a straight razor. Slit their throats and turned them over to his partner in crime, and she baked them into pies.”

Bucky looks horrified, and Clint has to stop himself from laughing. “We’ll skip that one,” he says. “We don’t have to watch it.”

“Let’s not,” Bucky agrees, and sets the razor on the counter. “But sure. I promise not to slit your throat with it.”

“How polite of you.” Clint reaches up with his good hand and ruffles his hair. “This first.”

Bucky nods. “How short do you want it?”

“Still long enough to pull,” Clint says without thinking, imagining metal fingers in it, and Bucky’s eyes go wide. “I mean—uh—what you did to yours is fine.” Heat flushes through him, and he looks down at the floor. “Wow. Sorry about that.”

Bucky doesn’t comment, although he looks very amused. “Okay. I can do that.” He reaches out and tilts Clint’s head back, then frowns. “Need to wash it first. It’s kind of...bloody.”

Clint looks down at his arm. “Gonna have to do it in the sink; I don’t want to get this wet.”

“Fine.” Bucky pulls him upright, then gently pushes him down over the sink, his metal hand pressed against Clint’s back.

“Ah,” Clint says, the sound slipping out of him without warning.

Bucky leans forward. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Clint manages, trying to squash the sudden and rampant arousal sparking through him. “No, I’m okay.”

Bucky’s fingers curl against his skin, but all he says is, “Do you want me to do it?”

“Sure.”

Bucky reaches over Clint, turning the faucet on. Clint closes his eyes as the water runs down his head, letting himself drift with the warmth of it and the soothing feeling of Bucky’s fingers against his scalp. He hasn’t done this since that mission in Bahrain, when he’d had to dye his hair for something and Nat had helped him. He doesn’t remember that time very well—he’d spent a solid chunk of it unconscious and bleeding—but he does remember the feel of her hands in his hair, and the fading sunlight through the cracked bathroom window, and the rare sense of peace he’d had in that moment.

It’s the same way he feels now, with Bucky’s fingers slowly carding through his hair, and the way he’s humming quietly to himself as he rinses the soap out. Clint wants to ask what he’s singing, but he’s not sure Bucky even realizes he’s doing it, and he doesn’t want to break the moment. 

Bucky stops and shuts the water off, carefully pulling Clint upright and guiding him to sit on the toilet lid. “Much better,” he says, rubbing a towel over Clint’s head before setting it over his shoulders. “Your head was kind of pink.” He tilts Clint’s chin up, eyes studying his hair. “Okay. Hold still.”

Clint holds perfectly still, and Bucky picks up the scissors. “Wish I had a comb,” he mutters.

“Doesn’t need to be perfect,” Clint says. “Just shorter.”

“I know.” He starts cutting, and after a moment, the humming resumes. Clint vaguely recognizes the song—some kind of old thing, he’s heard Steve play it once or twice before. Big band music, which would certainly fit with Bucky’s era.

_Can take the guy out of the 1940s, but can’t take the 1940s out of the guy,_ he thinks, smiling slightly.

“What are you so happy about?” Bucky murmurs, turning his head a little.

Clint shrugs. “You.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s thumb brushes over his cheek. “What about me?”

“You were singing,” Clint says. “I liked it.”

Bucky’s hands go still. “I was?”

“You were.”

“Oh.” He starts cutting again. “Huh. That’s new.”

“You can keep doing it,” Clint adds. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

“I don’t know what it was.” Bucky bites his lip, looking thoughtful. “Sometimes it just comes in my head. I think I used to like music, before.”

“We’ll add it to the list,” Clint says. “Maybe look up some music for you. See if there’s anything you recognize.”

“I’d like that,” Bucky says quietly. “They didn’t really let me listen to music. If I heard anything, it was by accident, or because I was in the vicinity.”

Clint looks up at him. “We’ll listen to all the music you want,” he promises, and Bucky’s face flashes with a myriad of emotions. “Anything you want. I’ll take you to concerts and piano bars and stuff. You’ll love it.”

Bucky’s hand settles on his cheek again. “I’d like that too,” he murmurs, then leans down and kisses Clint. “You’re too good to me.”

“I’m really not,” Clint says as he straightens up. “You’ve just got nothing except Hydra to compare me to. Any basic human decency is gonna seem nice after that.”

Bucky moves to the other side of his head. “I guess,” he says after a moment. “But I still appreciate it. You thinking about what I might like.”

“I want you to be happy,” Clint says, and Bucky’s breath seems to stutter at that. “You’ve been through a whole bunch of shit that you didn’t deserve. The least I can do is help you figure out what kind of music you might be interested in.”

“Doing a lot more than that,” Bucky mutters, but it’s so quiet Clint’s pretty sure he wasn’t meant to hear it. So he doesn’t respond, and after a moment, Bucky sets the scissors down and runs his fingers through Clint’s hair. “There. That’s not so bad. Wanna see?”

Clint gets up and moves to the sink, checking out his reflection. “Oh man, that’s _so_ much better,” he says, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face. “I love it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He holds up the straight razor. “Still want me to do this, or...?”

“Yeah, if you’re cool with it. I’m not the best with them.” Clint taps a thin, barely visible scar along his jawline. “Mistakes have been made in the past.”

Bucky snorts. “Sit down, then.”

Clint sits. Bucky plucks a tiny bottle of shaving cream from the shower, then wets a washcloth under the sink. “Head back,” he says, and Clint leans back until his head bumps the wall. It’s not exactly comfortable, but he’s more focused on the way Bucky drapes the warm cloth over his face, then presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. It’s fucking sappy as hell, and Clint loves every bit of it.

When the heat is gone from the cloth, Bucky picks up the shaving cream, hesitating. “You—” he starts, then pauses, looking unsure. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I trust you.”

“Oh.”

The word is soft, shocked, and Bucky looks sucker-punched at the thought, like he’s never heard the words before. Clint sits up a little bit. “I do,” he says, reaching forward and winding his fingers into Bucky’s free hand. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You don’t really know me,” Bucky whispers.

“I know enough,” Clint says. “And anyone who likes planes as much as I do is pretty cool, so...”

It’s not his best joke, but it makes Bucky smile, breaking the tension a little bit. “Fair enough,” he says. “Lean back for me.”

Clint resumes his earlier position, and Bucky smears the foam over him, then starts scraping his face clean in short, even strokes. He’s so _careful_ with it, like it’s the most important mission he’s ever done in his life, intensely focused on every single movement. Clint distantly thinks a more rational person would be slightly worried—this is, after all, the world’s deadliest assassin, and he’s got a very sharp blade at Clint’s throat—but he’s not worried at all, not even a tiny bit. Because he _does_ trust Bucky, trusts him more than just about anyone other than Nat, and the thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

_It’s only been a week,_ he thinks, but he doesn’t really care. It’s been an insane, intense, and mostly terrifying week, and Bucky’s more than proved himself, a dozen times over.

So, yeah. Clint trusts him. With this, with his life, with everything else.

“There,” Bucky says, gently wiping off his face. “You’re good.”

Clint gets up and looks in the mirror again. “Jesus,” he says, a little shocked, because apparently cutting his hair and de-scruffing his face is all it takes to remove _years_ from his appearance. He’s still got a fading black eye, and the almost-healed cut on his forehead, and a couple other marks, but otherwise, he looks halfway decent for once. “Wow.”

“Is that good or bad?” Bucky asks, cleaning off the razor.

“Just surprising,” Clint says. “I haven’t—it’s been awhile. Between the hair and the beard and Rumlow and everything—” He stops, shrugging. “I don’t know. It’s just different.” He nudges Bucky with his arm. “Good different. I like it. You did great.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, looking faintly pleased with himself.

Clint reaches over and brushes his palm along Bucky’s face. “You gonna shave too?”

“Do you want me to?”

“It’s your face,” Clint says. “You can do what you want with it.” He does like clean-shaven Bucky, but the stubble is also one-hundred percent hot, so he’s not really going to argue for one or the other.

Bucky looks in the mirror. “Probably not,” he says after a moment.

“Fair.” Clint tugs him into a kiss, reveling in the sensation of Bucky’s rougher stubble against his own smooth face. “I like this, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Bucky smiles against his mouth, then kisses him back, turning it into something a little more heated. It’s already familiar, the way he kisses. Strong and certain and a little bit dominating, which goes with everything Clint’s into. He likes the way Bucky backs him into the wall, likes the way Bucky presses against him to pin him there. It makes him feel safe. Protected. Narrows his attention until Bucky’s the only thing he can focus on.

Bucky pulls back a bit, both of them breathing heavily. “Goddamn,” he mutters, and Clint feels his own lips pull into a smile.

“And you thought you weren’t good at kissing,” he teases, sliding his hand up Bucky’s arm.

“Not something I’ve got a lot of experience with,” Bucky admits. “I know how to kill people. I don’t—kissing them is a whole other story.”

“Suppose that’s true.” Clint loops his good arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Well. You can practice all you want on me, I sure as hell won’t complain.”

“Be happy to,” Bucky says. “Except I gotta ask you something.”

Clint tilts his head. “What?”

“Why were you thinking about sex, before? In the car.”

Clint groans and drops his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Not lettin’ that one go, are ya?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, patting his back. “I wanna know.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been thinking about it too.”

Clint snaps his head up, just barely missing whacking it on Bucky’s chin. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Bucky repeats, and Clint stares at him. “You and me. What it would be like. Ever since the shower. I didn’t—” He blushes a bit, which is oddly endearing. “I didn’t mean to see you like that but I just—”

“I’m the moron who told you to come in,” Clint says. “Don’t blame yourself, that one’s on me.”

Bucky shrugs, still red. “Anyway. I’ve been thinking about it.” He looks up, meeting Clint’s eyes. “I want to. With you.”

“Ah,” Clint says, because he’s not really sure what else to say to that. “I...good to know, I guess?” Bucky’s mouth thins slightly, and Clint wants to whack himself in the head. “I’m sorry. That was dumb.”

“A bit,” Bucky agrees, and kisses him again, hungry and heated and just a tiny bit possessive. Clint lets him do it, kissing back while he tries to gather his own thoughts into some semblance of order. A task made infinitely harder by the way Bucky’s mouth is moving against his, making a solid case for throwing thoughts and caution to the wind and just letting Bucky fuck him right here against the wall.

Except all the reasons that’s _not_ a good idea are blaring in his head like a neon sign, and Clint groans, forcing himself to be reasonable. “Bucky,” he finally gets out. “Bucky—stop.”

Bucky immediately freezes, then pulls back, concern in his eyes. “Did I—”

“Hey,” Clint says, and puts a finger against his lips. “Let me talk, okay?” He thinks for a moment, then tugs Bucky’s arm. “Come on. Not in here.”

They go back out to the room. Clint lets go of his arm, and Bucky immediately starts pacing, short, sharp movements that betray his agitation, even though his face is blank.

Clint grimaces and rubs a hand over his hair, feeling little stray bits of it trail down his neck. He doesn’t know how to _start_ this conversation. It’s not one he was expecting to have, and sure as hell not right now. Not today. Not for a long, long time, if he’s being honest with himself. He’s still in denial about half of it—rationally, he _knows_ it happened, but he doesn’t like to think about it. 

Sure as fuck doesn’t want to talk about it, either. He can still feel their hands on him, a thousand ghostly touches skimming over his skin and making him shudder. He can still feel the chill of the basement cell, and the gritty sensation of the plane floor under his knees, and the wrap of a canvas belt around his neck. He can _feel_ it, and he hates it, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. And he's so afraid, too, that talking about it is just going to open the floodgates. It’ll all come pouring out of him, and he can’t handle that. Not right now. It’s still too raw.

But Bucky is waiting for him to say _something_ , so Clint grits his teeth and does his best. “Look,” he starts. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” 

Bucky keeps pacing.

“I do. I really, really do. But there’s...” Clint gestures vaguely. “First of all, Nat’s gonna be back at some point. Second, we’re both beat to hell, and kinda gross. And third...” He trails off, letting his hand fall to his side. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Just say it,” Bucky says sharply.

Clint sighs. “Look, remember when you said on the plane about Hydra...about them using you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they did that to me too. A lot. It, uh...it sucked.” He swallows hard. “Like, massively. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Bucky nods. “That’s...accurate.”

“But it was sometimes just me and Rumlow, and he was...” His fingers are tapping again, and he tries to use the pattern to ground himself. “He could be...”

“A dick?”

Clint laughs, short and bitter, feeling the anxiety building in him. “Well, yeah. But sometimes he was...nice?”

“Nice,” Bucky echoes, skepticism thick in his voice. 

Clint shrugs. “Not awful, I guess? I don’t...” He tries to think of the right way to describe it, how to spell out the dichotomy of Rumlow’s behavior. How he could be so cruel, then turn around and be human in the same breath. How Clint would just take it every time, so desperate for kindness that he craved every little gesture of it. Like how he’d let Clint have range time, or that one day he brought Clint a coffee, or the time Rumlow let him sleep—

_God, he’s tired._

_It’s been a long day. A long stretch of days, really. Rumlow’s in one of his manic phases, which means he’s working late and coming in early. Which means Clint has to do the same. And it’s not like he’s not used to it—god knows his sleeping schedule was crap before this—but even he has his limits, and he definitely doesn’t have Rumlow’s boundless energy._

_Point being, he’s fucking tired._

_He’s on his knees again in Rumlow’s office, right next to his chair. It’s late, the clock ticking over past midnight, and they’ve been here since six AM, and they’ll probably be in early tomorrow. So the best he can look forward to is maybe two to three hours of uninterrupted sleep, again._

_His eyes close, and he digs his fingers into his thigh to stay awake, focusing on the little pinpricks of pain. Rumlow doesn’t seem to notice; he’s barely even acknowledged Clint’s presence since setting him there a few hours ago and ordering him to be quiet. If Clint was less exhausted, he’d be a little shit about it, just because it’s fun to watch Rumlow get increasingly irritated. But he’s still got the bruises from last time, and he’s so. Fucking. Tired._

_Time slips by, punctuated with the little shifts of paper, and Rumlow typing things on his computer. Clint lets the clicking of the keys lull him, lets it drift him off into that half-awake, half-asleep place in his mind._

_Except half-asleep must turn into all the way asleep at some point, because he jerks back awake with a flare of pain as his head whacks on the desk. “Fuck!” He puts a hand to his head, checks to see if there’s blood. There’s not, but he’s going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow. He quickly glances up at Rumlow, waiting to see if he’ll be punished for that or not._

_Rumlow doesn’t look mad, though. He just snickers. “Napping on the job?”_

_“Shut the fuck up, Rumlow.”_

_He shakes his head in faux disappointment. “Thought you were more professional than that. Shame.”_

_Clint glares up at him. “Wouldn’t be a problem if you’d fucking let me sleep at all.” It’s stupid, he knows, but he’s pissed off and exhausted and really at the end of his rope. “I’ll lay on the goddamn floor if you want, alright? Just...” He gestures at nothing, then rubs a hand over his face. “Just a little bit. Not like I’m doing anything useful.”_

_“Aw, sweetheart,” Rumlow says. “You’re being very useful. I like having something pretty to look at while I work.”_

_Clint shudders. “You can look at me while I’m sleeping?” he offers. “Fulfills the creep factor, and I don’t have to be awake for it. Everybody wins.”_

_Rumlow snorts. “Mouthy little bitch today, aren’t you?” He turns his chair suddenly, facing Clint, and moves his legs wider. “Come here, then.”_

_Clint closes his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. “Yeah. Fine.” He shuffles forward, reaching his hands up for Rumlow’s belt. He’s too tired to argue, and by this point, blowjobs are more of a chore than anything. Like taking out the trash. Just something to be done._

_Rumlow smacks his hands away. “What do you think you’re doing?”_

_Clint stares up at him. “I thought you wanted—”_

_“Don’t think,” Rumlow orders. “You’re not good at it. You do what I tell you to do, and that’s it.”_

_Clint bites back his surge of anger. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”_

_Rumlow smirks. “You wanted to sleep?” He pats the inside of his thigh. “Come here and sleep, then.”_

_“I’m not—” Clint blinks. “What the fuck?”_

_“This is the choice,” Rumlow says. “Either sleep here, or sit there and stay awake. But if you interrupt my work again, I’m gonna be pissed, and you’ll spend tomorrow downstairs. And no range time for a week.”_

_“And no dessert for a month,” Clint mutters, staring at Rumlow’s thigh. He debates for a moment, if losing another piece of his pride is worth spending a day downstairs. He’s at his limit, in terms of being awake. If he tries to sit there and hold out, he’s going to slip again._

_“Decide,” Rumlow orders, his voice low. “I’ve got another hour of shit to do, and I’m not interested in spending it arguing with you.”_

_Clint stares a heartbeat longer, then feels something inside him crack. He doesn’t bother answering, just moves into a more comfortable position and leans his head against Rumlow’s thigh._

_“Good boy,” Rumlow says, the smugness thick in his voice as he pats Clint’s head. “Not so hard, is it?”_

_“I hate you,” Clint says, but he’s too tired to make it sting, and he’s pretty sure Rumlow likes to hear it anyway._

_“I know, sweetheart.” Rumlow chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when I’m done.”_

_Clint doesn’t have the energy to come up with a witty response to that one, so he just nods, forehead rubbing against Rumlow’s thigh, and closes his eyes._

_It feels like only minutes later that a hand lands on his shoulder, gently shaking him. “Hey. Barton.”_

_Clint blinks awake, his mind taking a moment to put things back into place. When he realizes where his head is, he flushes with embarrassment and sits back on his heels, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sorry.”_

_“What are you sorry for?”_

_“Um.” He flicks his gaze up to Rumlow’s, then back down. “I don’t know.”_

_There’s a soft chuckle at that. “You’re fine, sweetheart. You did what I wanted you to do.” He stands up, then reaches down and offers a hand to Clint. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”_

_Clint takes the hand and staggers to his feet. He’s been kneeling for hours, and his...everything, really, protests at the change in position. “Fuck,” he hisses, bracing himself on the desk. “Gimme a second.”_

_Surprisingly, Rumlow doesn’t protest. Just lets Clint take the time he needs to get himself acclimated. “Should get something for you to kneel on,” he murmurs, looking down at the floor. “That’s not really comfortable down there.”_

_“Not so much,” Clint agrees. He straightens up, tries a step or two. “Okay. I‘m good.”_

_Rumlow nods and opens the door for him. Clint follows him into the hallway and to the elevator. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Rumlow to say something cruel, or rub in the fact that he just spent the last hour sleeping on Rumlow’s thigh—but he doesn’t. He just studies Clint with a contemplative expression, head tilted to the side._

_“What,” Clint finally says._

_“Nothing.”_

_“You’re staring.”_

_“You’re worth staring at.”_

_Clint blinks a little at that. “I’m really not.”_

_Rumlow smiles. It’s not cold, or cruel, or any of the other things Clint’s come to expect from him. It’s just genuine, and a little amused. Then he shakes his head and walks out of the elevator when the door opens. “Come on. You’re tired.”_

_He puts a hand on Clint’s back while they walk, right over his spine. And it’s not pushy, like Clint’s come to expect from him. It’s a steady pressure, gently easing him forward. It’s almost...nice._

_Neither of them say anything while Rumlow drives them back to his apartment. The silence continues until they’re getting ready for bed, when Rumlow finally says, “You wanna sleep in a little tomorrow?”_

_Clint pauses in the middle of taking off his shirt. “Huh?”_

_“You want to sleep in? I can get some work done here. We don’t have to be in until eleven.”_

_“I...” Clint doesn’t know how to answer that. He does want to sleep—god, he wants it—but nothing comes for free with Rumlow, and he doesn’t want to play the game._

_But Rumlow seems to read his mind, because he shakes his head. “Nothing in return. You’re tired. I’ve been running you hard the past few weeks.”_

_Clint bites his lip. “I thought you liked that.”_

_“A little bit,” he admits. “But I don’t want to kill you. You were fighting pretty hard to stay awake tonight. I didn’t realize you were that tired.”_

_“Aren’t you tired too?”_

_Rumlow shakes his head again. “I get like this. It’s normal for me, I’m used to it.” He shrugs. “I forget other people have trouble keeping up.”_

_“Oh.” Clint sits on the edge of the bed and waits for Rumlow to hook him up, too tired to even care about hating himself like usual for this part._

_“So do you want to?”_

_Clint meets his eyes, then nods. He doesn’t trust this, but if Rumlow’s really offering... “Yeah, I’d like that. Thank you.”_

_“You’re welcome,” Rumlow says softly. He connects the chain, then reaches out and touches Clint’s forehead, rubbing his thumb over the bruise there. It’s tender, but it doesn’t hurt yet. Clint suspects it will tomorrow. “Did a number on yourself there, didn’t you?”_

_“Happens.”_

_“Mmm.” He sighs. “Go to sleep, kid.”_

_“I’m not a kid,” Clint says, but he lays down anyway, assuming his usual position. Rumlow looks down at him with a fond expression, something Clint’s never seen on him before. He doesn’t really know how to react to that, so he just settles into the bed and does his best to get comfortable._

_“Night,” Rumlow murmurs, and flicks the lamp off before heading back into the main room. Clint stares after him for a moment, then lets his eyes slide shut, unsure how to handle all of this, and honestly too tired to try._

“Clint,” Bucky says, and Clint forcibly pulls himself from the memory.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. What was I saying?”

Bucky takes a step towards him, then stops. “That he was nice sometimes?”

Clint nods. “He was,” he says, remembering the gentle way Rumlow had touched him. “And that just...made it worse, somehow. Made _everything_ worse.” He shudders. “Point being, I’ve got a lot of shit to work through. And I think you do too. And as much as I want you to fuck me against the wall, I don’t think it would be the smartest idea right now.” Clint tries for a smile. “And I’m the king of stupid ideas, so coming from me, you know that means a _lot_.”

Bucky’s not pacing anymore. He’s just standing by the window, eyes on Clint, and after a moment, he nods. “Okay.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m not interested,” Clint says. “Because I am. I just don’t think _now_ is a good time.”

“That’s fair.” Bucky crosses his arms, then lets them fall again. “Can I...”

“Can you what?”

“Can I still kiss you?”

Clint grins. “Course you can.” He holds out a hand, and Bucky reaches for it, loosely tangling their fingers. “I’m good with kissing. I’m good with some other stuff too, we just need to make sure we’re talking about it first. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky echoes, and he steps a little closer. He doesn’t kiss Clint, though. Just looks at him, taking in the absolute mess that is Clint’s body. The faded scars, the waning bruises, the bullet wounds, both fresh and old. A testament to the life he’s chosen to live.

Bucky lifts his other hand, caressing his fingertips over the puckered skin of a burn scar on his upper chest, just under his collarbone. “How’d you get this?”

“Infiltrating a sleeper cell in California,” Clint says. “They caught me. They were supposed to. They also caught Nat, though, and she was my rescue. We stayed a little longer than planned. There was some torture.”

Bucky nods. “And this?” He moves to a knife wound on Clint’s ribs.

“Disgruntled asshole in a bar. Wasn’t even a mission, just some dick who got too drunk and pulled a knife on another guy. I intervened.”

“And this?”

“Uh...I think Nat shot me.”

“And this?”

“Hit by a car.”

“And this?”

“Believe it or not, an ostrich bit me.”

Bucky laughs outright at this one. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Clint looks at his arm. “Fucker got stuck in a fence, and I was helping it, and it bit me. Won’t catch me doing that shit again.”

Bucky laughs again, trailing his fingers over Clint’s skin, leaving little goose bumps in his wake. “You’ve got a lot of stories here,” he says.

“Yeah,” Clint says with a too-wide grin. “I’m a little beat up. Not a pretty thing to look at, I know.”

Bucky traces the scar from a long healed bullet wound. “You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice as soft as his fingers.

“Nah, I’m a hot mess,” Clint says, trying to hold onto the joke, because this is getting into emotional, personal territory and he’s never known how to tread there safely.

“Stop that.” Bucky suddenly sounds upset, and he pulls his fingers back. “Stop that right now.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what.” He glares at Clint. “Putting yourself down like that. I don’t like it.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says. “I’m just making a joke.”

“It’s not funny.” Bucky still sounds pissed. “You—you’re worth more than that. You _are_.”

“Why?” Clint whispers. His voice seems to catch in his throat. “I’m not anything special.”

Bucky pushes him backwards, down onto the bed, and steps right between his spread legs. “You really believe that?”

Clint looks up at him, hardly able to get the words out. “What would you call me?”

His eyes are bright and sincere and so, so blue. “Darlin’,” he says, brushing his hand along Clint’s newly-smooth cheek. “You’re a goddamn _miracle_.”

His mouth presses to Clint’s, stealing the response he couldn’t voice anyway. Bucky’s lips are soft, and warm, and his body fits against Clint’s in all the right ways, and it’s so _perfect_ that Clint wonders how he ever functioned without this. It’s like he spent his whole life seeing in black and white, and now suddenly there are brilliant colors everywhere, and he can hardly breathe for the beauty of it all.

Tears burn in his eyes and he lets them fall, lets Bucky’s thumbs brush them away as his hands cup around Clint’s face. Clint kisses him back, desperate and craving, and there is nothing between them but those words, those beautiful words spiraling through their breathless kiss, filling him with life—

_You’re a goddamn miracle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has no idea how long he’s been standing there. There’s still soap in his hair, and he rinses it out quickly, rubbing his hands through his hair like he might be able to scrub the memory away with it. He needs to quit doing that, he’s going to do it at the wrong moment and it’s going to put someone in danger. There isn’t time for him to be wallowing in guilt. They still have to rescue Steve and Tony, still have to take down Project Insight, still have to get SHIELD back online. It doesn’t matter what shit happened to him, he doesn’t have the right or the time to sit here and complain about it.

Clint would be content to stay there and kiss Bucky forever, but the sound of the door opening is enough to break them apart in a flash of panic, both reaching for weapons. Nat pauses in the doorway, arms laden with bags, eyebrows raised in a way that makes her look like her old self. She flicks her gaze between the two of them.

Clint blushes slightly and lowers his gun. “Sorry,” he says. “What did you get?”

“Stuff,” she says, depositing the plastic bags on the bed. She’s wearing jeans and a baggy black sweatshirt now, something that _should_ make her look less threatening, but really doesn’t. “How’s your arm?”

“Still needs stitches.”

Bucky looks though the bags, immediately picking out the medical supplies. “I can do it.”

“I’ll do it,” Nat says, taking them from him. “Why don’t you go...shower.”

Bucky looks at Clint, who nods. “It’s fine,” he says quietly. “Get cleaned up. I’m okay.”

Nat shoves a bag at him. “These should fit you.”

Bucky takes the bag, then casts one last look at Clint before heading into the bathroom. It’s sweet, really, but Clint’s pretty sure Nat’s not going to—

As soon as the door clicks shut, though, Nat glares at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Gonna stitch up my arm,” Clint says, playing innocent. He holds out a hand. “Can I have the stuff?”

“With _him_ , you idiot.” Nat doesn’t move, fingers still gripping the supplies. “You realize that’s the Winter Soldier, right?”

“His name is Bucky,” Clint says, glancing behind her to the bathroom door. It’s closed, but Clint knows Bucky can still hear them. “He’s been helping me this whole week. We got away from Hydra together. He’s got my back. I trust him.”

“He tried to kill you three hours ago,” she says, grabbing his arm. Clint winces as she starts disinfecting it. “You remember that, right?”

“He wasn’t trying to kill me,” he says, hissing in pain. “He was brainwashed. Hydra put a bunch of shit in his head. It wasn’t his fucking fault.” He looks at her. “He’s my friend, Nat. I trust him.”

She opens the suture supplies. “Friends don’t kiss each other like that.”

Clint grins at her. “Why, you jealous?”

He means it as a joke. A desperate grab for the banter they used to have. But Nat just presses her lips together, a blank look on her face, and threads the needle. “It took them ten words to turn him into their puppet,” she says, voice flat. “And you’re letting him get _very_ close to you.”

Her tone is cold, almost patronizing, and he feels a swell of anger flare in him. “I _trust_ him,” he says again. “He’s been through every second of this with me, and he hasn’t given me any reason to think otherwise.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. Clint can see the skepticism written all over her as she stabs the needle into his arm with a clinical touch, making him wince. “He’s a good person,” Clint says. “It’s not his fault they put a bunch of shit in his head, any more than it was yours—ow, Jesus, Nat! Take it easy!”

“Don’t be a baby,” she mutters, eyes on his arm.

A chilly silence settles between them, broken only by Clint’s bitten-off grunts of pain as Natasha keeps working. He wants to talk to her. Brush her hair out of her face, hold her in his arms, tell her how much he fucking missed her, tell her that he thought about her every damn day—

“What,” she says, still not looking up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, forcing the words out, not sure why it’s so hard. “I—I missed you so fucking much, and now you’re here, and I’m kind of being an asshole about it.”

Nat doesn’t respond to that either, but her touch gets a little softer after that, the stitches a little more gentle. She finishes them in silence, a neat row of black sutures dotting up his arm.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he adds. “I wanted to.”

Her mouth thins as she ties off the last stitch. Then she says, “I saw the videos, Clint.”

Clint swallows hard, staring straight ahead. “Oh.” He’d suspected as much, but it still sucks to hear. “I—”

“So you don’t get to be sorry for that,” she says, wrapping his arm in gauze. “What they did to you—”

“Please don’t talk about it,” he says, still staring at the wall, trying to see the blank expanse of it instead of his nightmares. “I don’t—please.”

She doesn’t, thankfully. She just wraps his arm in gauze before securing some plastic wrap over it, securing it with tape. “So you can shower,” she murmurs, and he nods.

He catches her hand as she tapes the last section in place, thumbing over the scar on the back of her hand. “Are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question to ask, and he hates himself the moment it’s out of his mouth. But Nat just smiles slightly, a fond expression crossing over her face for a heartbeat. Then she ruffles his hair, tilting her head a little bit. “Did you just cut this?”

“Bucky did,” Clint says, gesturing towards the bathroom. “He’s better at it than I am.”

Nat nods. “You really trust him?”

“I do.” Clint shrugs. “It’s hard to explain, but...” He gestures around the room. “I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t helped me.”

She studies him, gaze appraising, and he squirms a little under her scrutiny. “You realize he’s a walking time bomb, right?”

“We’re all a little fucked up, Nat. No one’s getting out of this intact.” He rubs his chin. “Look, we’ve been through shit together. You know how it is when you’re on a mission.”

“We’re not on a mission.”

“Yeah, we are. Have been since this whole thing started.” Clint sighs. “I trust him, okay? He’s more than proved himself to me, a dozen times over.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“No.”

“But you’re kissing him.”

“Yes.”

Natasha keeps looking at him. “Okay,” she says after a moment.

“That’s it?” Clint asks. “No arguing? Not gonna tell me I’m an idiot?”

A fond look crosses her face again, and she shakes her head. “Would it help?”

“Probably not,” Clint admits. “I kind of like him.”

Nat trails her fingers over him, cataloguing the rest of his injuries. Mostly shallow cuts and bruises, nothing really earth-shattering for him. Nothing that needs immediate medical attention. Normally, he’d pull his arm away and tell her to stop smothering him, that he’s fine, he doesn’t need to be babied.

But he doesn’t this time. He just offers himself up silently, lets her go where she needs to. If she needs to touch him right now, reassure herself that he's here, Clint's sure as hell not going to tell her no.

“Rumlow did this?” she asks, sliding a finger under one of the cuffs around his wrists.

Clint nods. “Trackers, plus some kind of shock collar thing. Tony hacked them and did an override, but whatever they’re made of can’t just be cut off. So I’m stuck with them, for the foreseeable future.” He turns his wrists over, watching them glint in the light. “They’re not uncomfortable. I forget they’re there, most of the time.”

The thought annoys him, that he’s gotten so used to wearing them, but he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” he says, reaching up and catching her hand as it skims over his shoulder.

“You too,” she murmurs, and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. “What’s next?”

“We gotta get to the Quinjet.” Clint gives her the coordinates. “Fly that back to the States somewhere. Hill said they’ll send us a location when we get to it. Then we take down Project Insight.”

“Just like that?” she asks, sitting on the bed opposite him. “You know what it is, right?”

“Fury told me. Big scary helicarriers.”

“Big scary helicarriers designed to kill hundreds of thousands of people at once,” Nat corrects. “All over the world.”

Clint nods. “But still just helicarriers,” he says. “At their core. Look, I’ve been thinking about it. Fury said they were state-of-the-art, right? Brand new, shiny helicarriers, all synched up to targeting satellites. But they’re just machines. If we can knock them out, then we’ll buy ourselves some time.”

“They’ll still have the targeting software.”

“But they won’t be able to do anything with it. We’ll take the bullets out of the gun. They can reload it, but it’s gonna cost them time and money. And in the meantime...”

Nat nods, smoothing out a wrinkle in the duvet. “I suppose you have a point.”

“I do,” Clint says. “I’m great at points.” He taps his quiver where it’s leaning against the bed and grins at her.

Natasha mutters something in Russian that he doesn’t quite catch. “I can’t believe I missed you,” she says, but he can tell she’s trying not to smile. “You and your stupid jokes.”

The bathroom door opens, and Bucky steps out, fully dressed. “Uh,” he says, looking over at them, rubbing a towel through his hair. “I’m done?”

“You asking or telling us?” Clint asks, getting to his feet.

Bucky shrugs. “If you need more time to talk about me—”

“Not everything’s about you,” Clint says, laughing. “Clothes fit okay?”

“Yeah, they’re fine.” He nods at Nat. “Thank you.”

She nods back, then tosses one of the bags at Clint. “These are yours.”

Clint catches it, looking between the two of them. “Can I leave you two unsupervised, or will you be trying to kill each other as soon as I close the door?”

“We’ll be fine,” Nat says, pushing him towards the bathroom. “Go. You smell like death.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, eyeing her. He doesn’t look worried, but his body language is a little more tense than it was a second ago. “We’re fine.”

Clint steps into the bathroom. “Seriously. Please don’t...hurt each other.”

“I won’t touch him,” Nat says, sitting very still on the bed. “I promise.”

Clint doesn’t feel particularly reassured by that, but he goes into the bathroom anyway. He waits for a moment, but when there’s no imminent sounds of fighting through the door, he gets in the shower. The water is lukewarm at best, and the pressure sucks, but it’s still nice to scrub all the dried blood off himself.

_Would be nicer if Bucky was in here,_ he thinks idly, imagining him running a washcloth over Clint’s skin, cleaning him up, as gentle and careful as he always is. Not like the last time he was in a shower with someone—

_“That was fun,” Rumlow sighs, cracking his back as he stretches overhead. “How you feeling?”_

_“Fine,” Clint mutters, unstringing his bow and carefully settling it back in its case._

_“And you were worried about getting rusty,” Rumlow chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Didn’t even miss a single shot.”_

_Of course he didn’t. Clint’s never missed a shot in his life. But he doesn’t say anything, just nods and tries not to flinch away from Rumlow’s touch._

_Rumlow casually tosses his weapons on the bed. “You got a nice place here,” he says, waving a hand around._

_Clint nods again. He doesn’t know why they’re in the Tower. All he knows is that Rumlow had dragged him from a dead sleep in the middle of the night, shoved his bow in his hand, and said, “We got some things to take care of.”_

_Clint’s still not entirely sure what the mission was for. He has a nasty feeling that it had something to do with taking out a SHIELD insurrection—he knows they’re still causing problems for Hydra—but he didn’t bother asking for clarification, knowing he wouldn’t get it anyway. He just shot where Rumlow told him to, and tried not to think very much about any of it._

_Afterwards, they got back on the jet. Clint expected to go back to DC, but they’d gone to New York. There’d been a debrief in the Tower with Sitwell and a few other top Hydra brass, and then Rumlow had dragged Clint into the elevator with a smirk and a, “You got a bed here, right?”_

_“Hey,” he says now, snapping his fingers in front of Clint’s face. “Barton. You awake?”_

_“Marginally,” Clint says, closing the case. “Why?”_

_“You need to shower. You’re muddy.”_

_Clint wants to ask him whose fault that is, but he doesn’t feel like getting hit in the face tonight, so he just shrugs. “Okay.”_

_“Come on.” Rumlow grabs his arm, pulling him towards the bathroom. Clint stumbles along after him, too tired to argue about being pulled around everywhere. Not like it fucking stops him, anyway. Not like anything Clint does ever fucking stops him._

_Rumlow lets out a low whistle as they step through the door. “Damn,” he says, slowly turning. “This is nice. Remind me again why you don’t live here?”_

_“Currently being held captive by a sociopath,” Clint says, pulling his shirt off._

_Rumlow snorts. “I’m not a sociopath.”_

_“You’re something,” Clint mutters, reaching for his pants. He half-expects to be hit, but Rumlow just laughs quietly and tugs his own shirt off. “You’re not—“ Clint starts._

_“Not what?”_

_“Showering. With me.” Clint’s mouth is dry, suddenly, and he can’t pinpoint why. “I can—I’ll wait—”_

_“What, you getting shy on me?” Rumlow laughs. “Baby, I think we’re long past the blushing virgin thing, don’t you?”_

_“I’m not—“ Clint starts, immediately going red. “For fucks sake, Rumlow, I just—“_

_“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Rumlow says. “Need help with those?”_

_Clint looks down at his pants. “No,” he says. “You can shower. I’ll just...wait.” He turns around, reaches for the door handle._

_It’s stupid, really. He knows Rumlow isn’t gonna let him go. But he can’t stop himself from trying. He doesn’t want this, the intimacy of it, doesn’t want yet another thing to be ruined by Rumlow and his bullshit—_

_“Barton,” Rumlow says sharply. “Get your goddamn clothes off.”_

_Clint’s fingers tighten around the door handle, and he thinks for one wild moment about leaving. Rumlow’s phone is in the room, he saw it on the dresser. He could grab it and go. Not leave the Tower, just go down to the lounge or something. Get away from this for a moment. Have a second to clear his head, be alone, get out some of this pent up, post-mission energy thrumming through him—_

_“Barton,” Rumlow says again, and Clint leans his forehead against the door, closing his eyes for a moment._

_“Yeah,” he finally says. “Okay.”_

_He shoves his pants down and toes his socks off, tossing them in the corner by his shirt before shoving past Rumlow and into the shower. It’s big, at least, and there’s two shower heads, so he might be able to make it through this without touching Rumlow at all—_

_That plan lasts about five seconds. Clint’s barely gotten his hand on the faucet when Rumlow’s hand settles on his hip, spinning him around and into the tile wall. “Quit it with the attitude,” he orders. “You know how this goes. I don’t know why I have to keep explaining things to you.”_

_“I’m just—“ Clint starts, then shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”_

_“You’re just what?” Rumlow’s eyes are amused, already dark with arousal. “Hmm?”_

_“I don’t know,” Clint sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we just do this?”_

_“You sound upset,” Rumlow murmurs, rubbing a soothing hand up his arm. From anyone else, it might be comforting. From him, it just makes Clint’s skin crawl. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”_

_“I’m just wound up,” Clint says. “From the mission. It happens. It’ll go away.” He sidesteps Rumlow and reaches for the faucet again, turning the water on. He shivers as the cold spray hits his bare skin and cranks it open. It’ll take a bit to warm up, but once it gets there, it’s pretty much limitless._

_Rumlow makes a quiet noise of annoyance and steps back out of the water. “Wound up, huh?” he asks, a smirk playing over his face. “Well. I can think of a few ways—“_

_“Can we not?” The water slowly starts to warm, easing the shivers running through him. “Just—just for once?”_

_“Shhh,” Rumlow says, stepping a little closer. “It’ll be fine. It’ll feel good. Bring you down a little bit. You know I’m right.”_

_He is. Sex is—or was, anyway— one of Clint’s favorite methods of unwinding after a mission, particularly a long or stressful one. It burns energy, grounds him back to reality, reminds him he’s still alive._

_But that was then, and this is now, and —_

_“You’re thinking too much,” Rumlow says, stepping into his space. “What did I tell you about thinking?”_

_“I’m not good at it,” Clint mumbles._

_“That’s right.” Rumlow pushes him against the wall again, cool tiles pressing into his back. “So why don’t you quit doing things you’re not good at, and put your real talents to use?” He puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder, pressing downwards. “Go on. Get to it.”_

_Something snaps inside Clint, something primal and furious. He shoves Rumlow’s hand off his shoulder and uses it as leverage to flip them around, pushing Rumlow into the tiles. “Fuck you,” he says, voice brimming with barely contained rage, and takes a step back, right into the spray of water._

_Rumlow raises an eyebrow, a smirk spreading across his face. “Excuse me?”_

_“You heard me,” Clint snarls. “I’m so goddamn sick of you.” He wipes the water out of his eyes and moves out of the way. “Fuck you, and your fucking ego, and your—”_

_Rumlow moves forward, shoving Clint backwards into the shower door. Clint expects some lecture about his attitude, or something else, but instead, Rumlow kisses him._

_It’s not nice. It’s not gentle. It’s like the time Rumlow kissed him in his apartment, teeth and tongues and biting. And just like then, Clint kisses him back, giving as good as he’s getting. The rage is still there, simmering under the surface, ready to explode and he just needs—_

_He needs—_

_“What do you need?” Rumlow asks, breaking it off to mouth his way down Clint’s neck. “Huh?” He bites, hard enough to make Clint yell and shove at him. “Tell me.”_

_“I don’t know,” Clint growls. He feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin, like he might spontaneously combust at any moment. He drags his nails down Rumlow’s arms, feeling a feral grin split his face as Rumlow grunts in pain. “Just—I don’t know.”_

_“That’s alright.” Rumlow kisses him again, biting at Clint’s lower lip, sliding a hand between them to wrap around both their cocks. Clint can’t help the whine that escapes him, how he rocks up into the sensation of it. He hates it, but it feels good, so fucking good, and it eases the burning in him even for the briefest of moments, lets his brain focus on something else—_

_“That’s alright,” Rumlow says again. “I got you, sweetheart. I know what you need.”_

_“Talk too fucking much,” Clint snarls, and kisses him again, biting his lip, a sick satisfaction uncoiling in him as Rumlow makes a pained sound. “Shut up for five seconds, goddamn—” He breaks off with a loud moan again as Rumlow tightens his grip, pressing them even closer together._

_Rumlow chuckles in his ear, low and dark and vicious. “Talk too much, huh? Think you’re the noisy one here, sweetheart.”_

_“Fuck you,” Clint gasps into his mouth, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to stay upright. “Fuck you, I fucking hate you—“_

_“I know you do,” Rumlow purrs, going faster, making Clint see stars behind his eyes. “I know, and you’re goddamn gorgeous for it.”_

_Clint doesn’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but he doesn’t really fucking care. He just needs to come; he can feel it building in him like a tidal wave, and he’s looking forward to the few blissful moments of peace when he can pretend that he’s somewhere else, with someone else—_

_Rumlow lets go completely, stepping back, shoving Clint’s arm off him. Clint’s legs actually wobble, and he has to brace himself on the shower door to stay up. “What—” he starts, but then Rumlow’s back on him, turning him around, sliding a hand down over his ass. “Jesus Christ, Rumlow—”_

_“Shut up,” Rumlow snarls, shoving his fingers in Clint’s mouth to muffle the next words. “Get ‘em wet.”_

_Clint does his best, sucking on them, swirling his tongue around. Distantly, he can feel the self-hatred under the anger, a little voice that’s screaming at him, but it’s easy enough to shove it aside, to focus on the burning need still raging through him. He’ll deal with it later, right now he just needs—_

_“Fuck,” he hisses as Rumlow presses into him. It’s not pleasant, but they fuck often enough that he doesn’t need a lot of prep anyway, and it feels good in a fucked-up kind of way. Horrible, but the right kind, the kind that sends sparks up his spine, makes him choke on muttered curses. “Just—just do it, come on—”_

_“So eager for it,” Rumlow chuckles, scissoring his fingers. “Trying to be considerate here—”_

_“Just fuck me,” Clint growls, shoving his hips back into Rumlow’s hand. “Just—come on, just fucking do it—”_

_Rumlow snarls something unintelligible, his control fraying, and Clint feels a sick sense of victory flare through him. Rumlow might have him against the wall, but Clint’s winning this round, he’s got the upper hand in this stupid, endless game they play. He lets a little whine slip into his voice, lets his desperation leak into his words, because as much as Rumlow knows him, Clint knows him right back. Knows how to push his buttons, make him just as eager for it. “Give it to me, come on—”_

_There’s a ringing in his ears and his vision goes blurry as Rumlow yanks his fingers out and replaces them with his cock, his first thrust hard enough to slam Clint into the shower door. Clint can taste blood blooming in his mouth, coppery and thick, and he grins at his own warped reflection. Rumlow is fucking him, finally, one hand pinning Clint’s arms behind his back while the other slides around to his throat, squeezing just hard enough to make breathing difficult. There’s no more talking now, just muttered expletives and grunts, and the wet slap of skin-on-skin._

_Clint pulls at his arms just to feel Rumlow’s grip tighten, just to feel his fingernails dig in, and the bright spark of pain is enough to pull an, “Ah-ah,” out of him, like it’s being dragged out of his bones. He’s just a wave of sensation now, a live wire sparking with electricity, fully lost in the moment. There is fire under his skin, and he can’t breathe, but it’s so fucking good, it’s everything he needed, the immediacy of the moment drowning out everything else._

_When he comes, it’s a full body thing, starting in his toes and twisting his stomach, burning through him. He’s not quiet about it either, babbling a string of things that don’t make any goddamn sense, aren’t really even English. The world bleeds out, turning into shades of grey, his vision fuzzing out as Rumlow keeps fucking him, not slowing for a second, and it’s just as good as it is painful. Clint manages to pull an arm free, slams his hand into the glass with enough force to make the whole door rattle._

_“Christ,” Rumlow chokes out, and then he’s coming too, plastering his overheated body against Clint, biting at the back of his neck. It hurts, but in that good way still, the endorphins filtering out the real pain, and so it just makes Clint sigh dully, forehead pressed against the glass. Rumlow wraps around him, muttering things in his ear that Clint only half listens to, still riding out the high of his orgasm for as long as he can._

_They stay like that for a long time, long enough that the good feelings start to trickle away, and Clint feels the shame kick in with full force, enough to make him sick with it. The urge to crawl out of his skin is sated, but now he just wants to hide, get out of the shower and curl up in his bed, hide from the goddamn world._

_The sob escapes him before he really realizes it, a broken noise curling out of him. He presses his free hand to his mouth, willing the rest to stay in, but then another one catches in his chest, and he feels the burn of tears in his eyes._

_“Hey,” Rumlow says, voice surprisingly tender. “Barton.”_

_“‘M fine,” he manages, shoving his hand back, pushing at Rumlow’s chest. “Get—get off me.”_

_Rumlow steps back, giving him room, and Clint takes a moment to gather himself, shove his wrecked pieces back together. He grits his teeth at the feeling of come sliding out of him, running down his leg, and forces his shaking hands to reach for the soap._

_“Easy,” Rumlow says, annoyingly put-together despite the intensity of what just happened. There’s a glint in his eye, something like pride and amusement, and Clint has to pull his gaze away before it breaks him further. “You did good, sweetheart, let me take care of you.”_

_“No,” Clint protests, broken, but he doesn’t have anything left to back it up with. The rage is gone, burned away, and he’s just pliant under Rumlow’s hands, following his lead. He lets Rumlow clean him up, keeping his eyes on the floor, watching the water spill over his feet, mixing and swirling with the soap as it goes down the drain._

Clint blinks himself back to awareness. He’s still standing under the shower, one hand braced against the wall, and the other making a fist at his side. He forces it open, wincing at the little crescent marks of blood on his palm. “Ah,” he says, holding it under the spray, watching the red swirl down the drain.

He has no idea how long he’s been standing there. There’s still soap in his hair, and he rinses it out quickly, rubbing his hands through his hair like he might be able to scrub the memory away with it. He needs to quit _doing_ that, he’s going to do it at the wrong moment and it’s going to put someone in danger. There isn’t time for him to be wallowing in guilt. They still have to rescue Steve and Tony, still have to take down Project Insight, still have to get SHIELD back online. It doesn’t _matter_ what shit happened to him, he doesn’t have the right or the time to sit here and complain about it.

Clint shuts the water off and dries himself, then looks through the bag—jeans, t-shirt, socks, jacket. He doesn’t bother looking at the sizes; she knows him well enough. He peels off the layer of plastic wrap around his arm and tosses it in the trash, taking a second to glance in the mirror. He’s bruised all to hell, but nothing is bleeding anymore, so he pulls the clothes on and goes back out into the room, trying to school his expression into something less jittery.

Nat and Bucky are quietly conversing in some language he doesn’t know—Arabic, maybe?—voices low and intense. Neither one of them looks angry, but there’s a tension between them, and Bucky’s fists are clenched on the bedspread.

“Hey,” Clint says, looking between them. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re fine,” Bucky says immediately. “Everything is fine.”

Nat gets up. “You finally done in there?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Water pressure sucks.”

“I’ll survive.” She grabs her own bag, pausing as she walks past him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, because they’re all a bunch of liars. He knows she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push it, either. She just brushes a hand over his arm, then disappears into the bathroom.

Bucky immediately gets up and comes a little closer. “You don’t look okay,” he says, eyes worried. Half of Clint wants to fold into his arms immediately, let Bucky hold him for a minute. The other half of him is brimming with memory, edgy and angry and shameful, and he just—he needs to _move_ , to do something—

“Clint,” Bucky says.

“I’m fine,” Clint snaps, suddenly angry at the concerned tone. “Just like you’re fine, and she’s fine, and everything is fine, will you please stop fucking talking about it?”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky starts, and Clint punches him in the face.

It surprises both of them, and it’s only Bucky’s enhanced reflexes that save him from a broken nose. He manages to take it on the chin instead, stumbling backwards with a hand pressed to his jaw.

“Oh my god,” Clint says, eyes going wide. He looks at his fist, stares at it like he’s never seen it before, the structure of it suddenly foreign to him. “I didn’t—are you—I’m sorry—”

He reaches for Bucky, and Bucky flinches. That, more than anything, makes Clint stop, frozen in place with regret, anger fizzling out into nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know if there is anything else _to_ say. Bucky’s eyes are on the floor, hand still pressed to his jaw. He looks small, suddenly, and blank, his expression completely shuttered off. It’s the Winter Soldier again, statue-still and unreadable.

Clint steps closer, clearly telegraphing his movements. “I’m...” he starts, then shakes his head. “Can I touch you?”

After an eternity, Bucky nods.

Clint gently wraps a hand around Bucky’s wrist, tugging his hand down from his face. He skates his fingertips over the mark. It’ll bruise, but not for long. Probably won’t last more than a day. Clint lets his hand drop, then presses a soft kiss to the mark, feather light. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Can I hug you?”

Bucky nods again, and Clint wraps his arms around him, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m not okay,” he admits, feeling the cold fingers of his flashback pulling at him again. “I freaked out a bit in the shower.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise. Then he steps backwards, out of Clint’s reach, and moves to the bed. “Come here,” he says, sitting down, and holding a hand out.

Clint goes, letting Bucky pull him down until he’s arranged half in Bucky’s lap, half on the bed. Bucky wraps his left arm around Clint, and the weight of it is more comforting than it has any right to be.

“I’m really sorry,” Clint says. “I just—”

“It’s alright,” Bucky murmurs, and something cracks inside Clint, something he didn’t even know was there, and he buries his face in Bucky’s chest, pressing as close to him as he can get.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out for the sixth time, knowing it’s not going to be enough to satisfy the regret spilling through him. 

“It’s _alright_ ,” Bucky says again, voice soothing. “I know you didn’t mean to.” He holds Clint tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “What happened in the shower?”

“I just—” He frees an arm enough to rub at his eyes. “Nothing. Stupid, really. I shouldn’t—I don’t have time for this. We don’t have time for this.” He half-heartedly pushes against Bucky’s arms, securely wrapped around him.

“I’d argue otherwise,” Bucky says, not budging an inch. “If you don’t want to tell me that’s fine, but we have until your friend gets out of the shower, and I’m comfortable here.”

Clint tries for a laugh. It doesn’t quite make it, but he thinks Bucky gets the idea. “Okay,” he says, and shifts a little bit, curling up tighter against him.

They’re quiet for a while, listening to the sounds of the running water. Eventually Bucky starts humming again, the same melody he’d been humming when he was cutting Clint’s hair. It’s calming, and Clint finds himself relaxing, some of the tension in him melting away as Bucky’s fingers trace gentle patterns on his skin.

The humming fades into silence. Then Bucky rubs his fingers in a little circle over Clint’s arm, and asks, “Did I say something?”

Clint sighs. “You didn’t mean to. It’s not your fault—”

“I’m just asking,” Bucky says. “Is it like after the plane? When I grabbed your arm?”

Clint nods against his chest. “I don’t like—what you called me.” He can’t even bring himself to say the word. “Rumlow called me that.”

“Called you— _oh_.” Bucky’s hand pauses. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“You didn’t know,” Clint says. “You couldn’t have. I should’ve said something.”

“Not like it comes up in conversation,” Bucky points out, and yeah, he’s got a point. “But now I know. I won’t say it again.” He pauses. “I called you darlin’ earlier, though. That was okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, smiling. “Kinda old-fashioned, but I liked it.”

“Good to know.”

Clint drags his fingertips over Bucky’s shirt, feeling the heat of his skin seep through the thin fabric. Then he says, “I had a flashback. In the shower.”

Bucky nods. “Okay.”

“We were talking about...sex, before. And there was once with Rumlow—” He shivers. “It was...it’s hard to explain.”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky tells him. “If you don’t want to.”

“It’s just another fucked up thing,” Clint says. “In a long line of them. This one was just...worse.” He closes his eyes at the shame that rears up in him, the sick feeling in his stomach. “I wanted it.”

“Wanted what?”

“Wanted him to fuck me.”

Bucky just nods again, keeping his hand moving over Clint’s arm. “Okay,” he says softly.

“That’s not okay,” Clint says, the words muffled into Bucky’s shirt. “It’s not—I knew exactly who he was, and I wanted it anyway, just to feel good—that’s so fucked up, there’s something _wrong_ with me—”

“There’s not a damn thing wrong with you,” Bucky says sharply. “You did what you had to do in the moment to stay sane and stay alive. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to _feel_ something—”

He stops hard, his own voice suddenly wavering, and his arms tighten around Clint, almost making it hard to breathe.

“If you’re looking for condemnation,” he says after a moment, sounding a little more in control, “you’re not going to get it from me. I’ve done fucked-up things to survive too. And I’m not going to let you sit there and beat yourself up when everything you did got you here. To me.”

“That’s very sappy of you,” Clint tells him, and Bucky’s chest rumbles with a laugh. “But I like it.”

Bucky runs his fingers through Clint’s hair, little scritching motions that pull a soft noise of contentment out of Clint. “Good,” he murmurs.

They’re still like that when Natasha comes out, still drying her hair. She doesn’t say anything, just studies the two of them with an unreadable gaze. Clint looks right back at her, keeping his own expression neutral.

After a moment, she drops the towel. “We should go,” she says. “I know you wanted to sleep, but there are three of us. We can take turns driving if we have to. But we shouldn’t stay here any longer than is necessary.”

“That’s a good point,” Bucky says, and pats Clint’s shoulder. “Come on. We should go.”

“Mmmmph,” Clint says, curling into him tighter.

Bucky pats him again. “I like you, darlin’, but I’m not carrying you anywhere. Come on. Get up.”

Clint sighs, but obediently starts to move, unfolding himself from Bucky’s arms and stumbling to his feet. He cracks his back, then turns and starts gathering all of their stuff. “Make sure everything’s out of the bathroom,” he says to both of them. “Last thing we want—”

He glances over to see Nat and Bucky looking at each other. They’re not glaring, but they’re not friendly either. There’s an almost tangible coldness between them, enough to make Clint shiver. “Okay,” he says. “What’s going on here?”

Nat shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Clint looks at Bucky, who’s got that look on his face again, like there’s something on the edge of his memory. “I don’t know,” he murmurs after a moment, turning to face Clint. “I don’t know. We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we need to move.”

Clint wants to talk about it _now_ , but he doesn’t think it’s going to do any good. So he just gathers their stuff, and they leave the keys in the room and head out to the car.

The trip to the Quinjet is shorter than Clint was expecting, but it’s still a decent amount of time in the car. He does his best to sleep, and drive when it's his turn. At some point they find a McDonald’s and Clint orders an obscene amount of food for all of them. “You’re gonna love this,” he says to Bucky, who looks at his Big Mac with some trepidation.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Natasha says. “I promise there’s other burger places that do a better job.”

“Blasphemy,” Clint says, tearing into his own burger. “If this weren’t a life or death mission, I’d throw you out of this car.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she counters, stealing some of his fries.

They drive right to the coordinates, and it only takes a few minutes of wandering in the woods before Clint walks right into the damn thing, cloaked and shielded as it is. “Ow,” he announces, holding a hand to his forehead. “Either I found it, or the air is solid here.”

Natasha finds the ramp and lowers it, and they all troop inside. Clint beelines right for the communications panel and turns it on, tapping into the frequency Hill gave him. A moment later, her face appears on screen. “Barton. Good to see you.”

“Good to see all of us, you mean,” he says, and pulls Nat over. “Told you I’d get her.”

“Romanoff,” Hill says, face creasing in relief. “You’re alive.”

“Yes,” Natasha says. “Where are we going?”

Hill gives them coordinates. “Ping us when you get close,” she says. “So we don’t shoot you out of the sky.”

Clint leans forward. “You have the capability for that?”

“You’ll see,” Hill says mysteriously. “Fly safe.”

She disappears from the screen. Clint shares a look with Natasha, then shrugs and sits in the co-pilot’s seat. They fall into their usual rhythm, easy as breathing, like nothing’s ever happened. Like this is just another mission for SHIELD.

He grins at her, and she smiles back—still not fully Nat, but close enough that he can pretend. “You ready?” he asks.

“Ready.”

Clint turns around to look at Bucky, who’s watching them with an interested expression. “Sit down and strap in,” Clint says, indicating the chair behind him, and Bucky does. “Good?”

“I’m good.” Bucky secures his harness. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Agreed,” Clint says, and maneuvers the jet into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you for helping me find Nat's voice this chapter, I <3 you


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky looks surprised for a moment. Then he smiles, slow and brilliant, like a sunrise. Clint loves the way he does it—just a hint at first, and then an explosion of warmth that takes his breath away. He wants to sit in its wake forever, wants to let it warm his bones. He would burn down kingdoms for that smile, he thinks, would tear apart anyone who tried to stop it. Bucky called him a miracle in the motel, but the truth is that Bucky is the miracle—a man who should be long dead, but is instead unbelievably alive. He’s scarred, and a little broken, but so is Clint, and he’s never liked perfect people anyway.

They’re about halfway through the flight home when Bucky nervously approaches Clint, fingers tapping on his leg. Clint barely has time to wonder if that’s a habit Bucky picked up from him, or if it’s all Bucky, when he says, “I’d like to see the book now.”

Clint stares at him blankly for a moment before he remembers. “Oh! Right. Here.” He hands it to Bucky. “Do you want me to leave you alone, or...?”

“No,” Bucky says, too quick to disguise any kind of fear. “No. Stay. I might...I need you.”

“You got me,” Clint assures him. He scoots over on the bench, making a space for Bucky next to him. “We’ll look at it together, then.”

Bucky sits next to him, hands clenching the cover of it, breaths coming in short little pants. “Okay,” he says, sounding like he’s going to throw up.

Clint’s half afraid the book’s going to tear in his hands. He puts a hand on Bucky’s arm, feeling the metal plates whir under the jacket. “Easy,” he murmurs, repositioning so his legs are sitting across Bucky’s lap, a position similar to how they were in the motel. It’s not super comfortable, but Bucky almost instantly calms, breathing slowing to a steadier rhythm. “There you go. No pressure, okay? We don’t have to read all of it. Or any of it. We can probably throw it out the window if you want.”

Bucky snorts, already looking more at ease. “Do the windows even open?”

“No,” Clint admits. “But we can dramatically lower the ramp and hurl it out. We can also hold onto it and use it as firewood. Up to you.”

“Fine.” Bucky stares at the cover of it, tracing his metal hand over the star. “I’ll think about it.”

“Want me to read it?” Clint offers.

“Can you read Russian?”

“Mostly.” Clint holds out a hand. “I can stumble my way through it, anyway.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I should do it. It’s...it’s about _me_.” He takes a deep breath. “I can do it.”

“Don’t push it,” Clint says. “If you need to stop—”

“I _know_.” The word is sharp, almost cruel, and Clint clamps his mouth shut. Bucky flicks his gaze over, his expression softening slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine.” Clint gestures to the book. “Go ahead.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, then opens it to the first page. His eyes skim down the page, mouth settling into a tight line. “Handling instructions,” he says, turning the page. “Cryofreeze protocol. What to do in case the Asset—in case _I_ went non-compliant.” He turns another page.

“Did that happen a lot?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. If they didn’t do it right.”

“Do you remember?”

“A little bit. But the last time they woke me—I definitely remember that.” Bucky shudders. “It’s awful. They have to...thaw me, I guess. Sometimes I wake up before—before it’s done.” He shudders again. “It’s like—I don’t know how to explain it. You’re frozen, but you’re awake. You know something is happening, but you can’t do anything about it. And then there are voices around, talking about you like a—like a weapon, like you’re nothing. And you’re cold, so fucking cold, and the _fear_ —”

He cuts off suddenly, staring at the far wall, face blank.

“Bucky,” Clint says quietly. “You’re not there. You’re here. With me.”

“I know,” he says, taking a shuddering breath. “I—I know.”

Clint shifts upright, tugging the book out of Bucky’s limp hand. Then he straddles Bucky, framing his face and tiling his chin up. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

Bucky flicks his blue eyes up, and the sadness in them is almost overwhelming. “It hurts,” he whispers, and Clint doesn’t know if he’s talking about the cryofreeze, or reading the book, or something else entirely.

“I know,” Clint says. “It’s okay.” He kisses Bucky, soft and easy, then pulls him into a hug. “Just breathe, alright?” He rubs a hand in soothing circles over Bucky’s back, trying to replicate the same patterns he’d used on Clint in the motel. “You’re never going back to them. They’re never going to do that to you again.”

“You can’t promise that,” Bucky says, quiet and pained. “You can’t—no one can promise that.”

“ _I_ can,” Clint says, and he means it more than anything he’s ever said before. “I promise it, I swear it, whatever it takes to get you to believe me. You’re not going back to them. I’ll do any damn thing I need to. Like you said back there. We’ll pull their fucking pyramid down brick by brick. They can’t have you again. I. Won’t. Let. Them.”

His voice rises by the end of it. Not yelling, but firm and strong, and Bucky just melts into him, burying his face in Clint’s shoulder as he pulls him closer. “Okay,” he says, and Clint’s not sure if he really _believes_ it, but it’s at least a start.

He’s not sure how long they sit like that—long enough for his legs to start protesting at the position, anyway—but eventually, Bucky taps his hip. “Okay,” he says again. “Let’s keep looking.”

Clint shifts back to where he was before, studying Bucky’s expression. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Bucky puts a hand on his leg, metal thumb moving in a slow circle. “I’m good. It helps. Touching you.” He picks up the book again. “It’s grounding. And you—you’re safe. You won’t hurt me.”

“Course not,” Clint says immediately. “I would never.”

“I know.” Bucky picks up the book and opens it to where he left off. “So that’s cryofreeze protocols. And this is...” He squints at the page. “Not Russian.”

Clint sits up a little, leaning to look at the book. “Yeah it is,” he says. “Just shit handwriting.” He skims it. “Something about imprinting?”

“Oh.”

The word is heavy, holding so much more weight than a single syllable should. Clint winces. “I take it that’s not anything nice.”

“Nothing in this book is nice,” Bucky says, sounding almost amused at the thought. “No, this is just...it was to help compliance. Make me more responsive to the handlers. They called it imprinting.” He reads down the page, jaw clenching. “They would use...chemicals? I think? Something. Every time there was a new handler. Make me want their approval. Their touch. They called it imprinting”

“Ah,” Clint says. “Like a turkey.”

Bucky snorts out a laugh, then looks surprised about it, like he didn’t mean to. “Like a _what?_ ”

“I read a story about it once,” Clint says. “This guy made himself the first thing a bunch of turkeys saw when they hatched, and then they like...followed him around forever.” He shrugs. “Happened to me, too. I rescued a duckling from a dog that was trying to eat it, back when I was in the circus. Little fucker wouldn’t leave me alone after that. Followed me everywhere until one day we moved and I lost him. Poor little Goose.”

Bucky is staring at him, mouth turned up in an incredulous little smile. “I...” he starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t even know where to _start_ with that.”

“I knew it was a duck,” Clint says. “I named him Goose ironically. Also because _Top Gun_ was the coolest movie I’d ever seen, at the time.” He points at Bucky. “We’re watching that for sure.”

“I just...” Bucky rubs his eyebrows, seemingly trying not to laugh. “Okay. Sure.” He looks down at the book. “Okay. Um. So yeah. Imprinting protocol.” He turns the page, still looking amused, and Clint cheers silently. “Uh. I don’t know what this is.”

Clint peeks at it. “Looks like a chemical formula? Tony might be able to understand it. Or Bruce definitely would if you want to show it to him. Maybe it’s the imprinting thing.”

“Maybe.”

It goes on for a few pages, Bucky skimming each one as the laughter slowly fades from his face. “Chair,” he says, tapping a drawing. “Instructions, I think. On how to build it. And use it.”

“How many were there?”

“Dozens, probably.” Bucky shudders. “I don’t remember. But it was big, I know that. Would’ve been more cost effective to build new ones. It was already expensive to ship me around the world, I doubt they would’ve wanted to do the Chair with me. I know for a fact there’s at least two. They had the one in Russia, and then your friend—Steve—they were putting him in one in DC.”

Clint swallows, staring at the page. “You said there’s instructions?” He skims the page. “Do you think it could be reverse-engineered?”

“You can’t put memories back,” Bucky says gently, reading his mind. “We can help Steve, but we can’t just put him in the Chair and undo what they did to him. It’s not that easy.”

“I didn’t think it would be,” Clint sighs. “But a guy can hope.”

“Hope’s all we got, sometimes,” Bucky murmurs, talking more to himself than Clint. He skims the next few pages, flipping past illustrations and other various instructions. “These are the words.”

“Why those words?” Clint asks, and Bucky shrugs. “Seems random, is all. There’s no connection between ‘em, you know?”

“I don’t know. Probably trying to make it so I couldn’t be triggered by anything else. Or anyone else.”

Clint nods. “Do you suppose there’s any way to get them out? Like to make it so they can’t do that again.”

“Probably,” Bucky says, studying the book. “But I don’t know for sure.” He glances at Clint. “In the meantime—“

“Stick an arrow in anyone speaking Russian, got it.” Clint points finger guns at him, which makes Bucky roll his eyes.

“You’re something else,” he says, fondly patting Clint’s leg.

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

“Sure do.” Bucky goes back to reading. “I think this part’s about the arm?” He turns the book towards Clint. “Engineering stuff again.”

“Tony would like that.” Clint takes the book. Reading’s not his strong suit, especially not Russian, but he can stumble his way through it. “I fully support your decisions to set this on fire, but if you don’t mind, I think letting him take a look at all this would be good. Him and Bruce both. They could probably make more sense of this. Tony could even build you a better arm—not that yours isn’t hot or anything,” he adds hastily, “but he could probably make one that works better. Maybe a little lighter, even.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Hot,” he repeats, and Clint feels his face flush. “You think my arm is hot?”

“Well...” Clint squirms a little. “Yeah. Okay. It kind of is.”

“Good to know, I guess,” Bucky says. He tugs the book from Clint’s hand and goes back to reading, a slight smirk on his face. Clint flushes even hotter, although on some level he’s suddenly thankful for his stupid mouth. This is heavy shit they’re looking at, and the more he can keep things lighthearted, the better. Anything to keep that despairing look off Bucky’s face.

He glances over towards Nat, who’s still sitting in the pilot’s chair. He’d tried talking to her when they took off, and after a few short answers, she’d put her hand over his and said, “Later.” Which was essentially Nat-speak for _leave me alone right now, please._ So Clint had drifted off towards the back, which is when Bucky had come over with the book.

He still wants to talk to her—knows there’s still things they need to cover—but he’s okay to leave her alone for the moment. Clint has learned, over their years of friendship, that pushing her to talk when she’s not ready will only lead to disaster. He’s got the fucking bullet scars to prove it.

Bucky closes the book suddenly, snapping it shut. “That’s probably good for now,” he says, voice tight. “I, uh. I need to stop.”

“Okay.” Clint takes the book and tucks it back into his jacket. “That’s cool. I’ll hold onto it.”

“Thanks.” Bucky rubs his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Clint says. “It’s not your fault. That’s heavy shit in there. No one expects you to sit down and read it like the next great American novel.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder and stands up. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Bucky nods, although he doesn’t look like he believes that. Still, he drops the subject. “Are we almost there?”

“I don’t know. Ask Nat.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You ask her.”

Clint sighs. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing.”

“Convincing,” Clint says dryly. “Seriously. What’s the problem?”

Bucky bites his lip, then says, “I know her.”

“What?” Clint stares at him. “What—how the hell do you know her?”

“I trained her, I think. They used to use me for that. As practice.” He closes his eyes, brow furrowing like he’s trying to retrieve a memory. “I don’t remember a lot, but I remember her. She was good.”

“Hell yeah she is,” Clint says, almost automatically. “But I don’t get it. So you trained her. Big deal. You were both brainwashed.”

Bucky gives Clint a small smile, sad and broken. “There’s more to it,” he says softly. “It wasn’t just battle training. There was—they used me for a lot of things. And I don’t know exactly what I did, but I can guess.”

“Oh,” Clint says, looking over at Nat. She’s never told him much about what the Red Room did to her, but he knows enough to extrapolate Bucky’s meaning from it. And given his own experiences with Hydra, and Hydra-adjacent—

“I didn’t want to,” Bucky murmurs. “And she _knows_ I didn’t want to. That neither of us had a choice.” He lets out a long breath. “Easier for me, I think, than for her. I don’t really remember much. Flashes of it, mostly. But she remembers _everything_.”

Clint feels sick, suddenly, a visceral nausea gripping him. “Oh,” he says again. “I—”

“I’m just keeping my distance,” Bucky says quietly. “We have to work together, but that’s—I can make sure I don’t get too close. That’s all I have to offer her.”

“I can talk to her,” Clint says. “I can—”

“You’re sweet, darlin’.” Bucky takes his hand and squeezes it. “But it’s not something you can talk out. You of all people should understand that.”

And he does. He can imagine what it would be like years from now, coming face to face with any of the people who had hurt him in that way. He’s already terrified of the moment he’ll have to face Rumlow again, and he _knows_ that’s coming. There’s no way he’d react well if it was sprung on him, especially not years later when he thought it was all behind him.

“I don’t mean it like that,” he says after a moment. “I’m—not as a bandaid. Just to make sure she’s okay.” He looks over at her, a little startled to see her looking right back at him. There’s an unreadable expression in her eyes, mouth thinned, head slightly tilted. After a moment, she crooks a finger at him.

“Gimme a sec,” he says, and goes up to the front of the plane. “What’s up? Everything okay”

“We’re about thirty minutes from landing,” she says. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Cool. Did you call Hill?”

“I was about to.” After a moment, she says, “Is he okay?”

“Bucky? Yeah, he’s fine. We were going over the protocol book thing Hydra used on him.”

“I heard.” She pauses, then says, “Don’t let SHIELD know you have that.”

“I won’t.” Clint shakes his head. “Trust issues, you know. I’ll find a safe place for it.”

She flashes him a smile, still miles away from the one she used to give him. “I know.”

“Nat,” he says softly. “He’s not going to hurt you.”

She just shoots him a look, then goes back to flying the plane.

Clint sits next to her. “You trust me?”

“I trust _you_ ,” she says. “I always have. _He’s_ a different story.”

“Whatever he did to you—”

“Is not something we’re discussing.”

“We don’t have to discuss it. I’m just saying he’s not that person anymore.”

“He’s not right now.” Her tone is calm, but her fingers are clenched around the controls, the only outward sign of her emotions. “It takes _ten_ words, Clint.”

“No one’s gonna make it to ten words. Not ever again.”

A wry smile stretches across her face. “You and your promises,” she says. “You think you’re gonna save the entire world, don’t you?”

Clint shrugs. “My friends are my world,” he says. “As long as I’ve got you guys...I can deal with everything else.”

Natasha looks at him, the smile turning more genuine for a moment. “You’re a sap,” she says, a teasing note entering her voice.

He shrugs again. “I missed you. Brings out the poetry in a guy.”

That gets a wider smile, and she punches the button for the radio. “Call Hill. Let her know we’re coming in.”

Hill looks even more tired than last time. She gives them specific coordinates, and more specific directions, and they end up landing the jet in the middle of a clearing at the base of a mountain. He lowers the ramp, then grabs his bag in one hand and Bucky’s hand in the other. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, moving to stand on Clint’s opposite side as Nat comes to meet them. “I’m functional.”

Clint sighs. “Bad word,” he says. “I’m going to start a jar, you know.”

“A...jar?”

“Like a swear jar. Except it’ll be a Functional Jar. And every time you tell me you’re functional, you put a quarter in it.”

Bucky is staring at him blankly. “I don’t have quarters,” he says after a moment. He glances at Nat, who just shrugs. “I don’t—is that a thing? People do that?”

“Normal people,” Nat says. “I think.”

Clint scowls at both of them. “Point is,” he says, turning to Bucky, “don’t give me that bullshit. Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired.” Bucky starts down the ramp. “I want to sleep. Actually sleep. Not two hour naps. I want to lay down in a real bed and sleep until I wake up.”

“There you go,” Clint says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Much better.”

Hill is waiting for them in the clearing. She smiles as they walk closer, brushing her hair out of her face. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” she says, looking at all three of them. “We could really use your help.”

“We’re glad to help,” Clint says. “But also, food and a place to sleep would be great.” Nat shoots him a look. “What? I’m just being honest. We’re all tired. I don’t even know what time it is. I don’t even know where we _are_ , actually.”

“It’s almost three in the morning,” Hill says. “And you’re in the Adirondacks. Welcome to the Sanctuary.” She gestures around them.

Clint looks, taking in the trees, and the distant mountains, and the star-filled sky. It’s certainly pretty, stirring up some of his Iowa farm boy roots. “Am I supposed to be seeing anything in particular?”

“No,” Hill says. “Not if we’ve done our job correctly. Which we have.” She motions them forward. “Come on, we need to move. The team will take care of the jet.”

“I’ve never heard of this place,” Natasha says, shouldering her own bag.

“Most people haven’t. Fury commissioned it a year ago. Beyond top secret.” She sighs. “I think maybe he suspected something at that point, but it wasn’t soon enough. In any case, it’s only half completed, and most of the people who know about it are either here or dead. So it’s safe.”

“That was going to be my question,” Bucky says. “Hydra doesn’t know about this place?”

“ _I_ didn’t know about it,” Hill says. “Until all of this happened. So that’s about as secure as we get.” She pushes aside a tree branch. “Come on.”

They follow her through the woods, stopping once they get to a rock cliff face. Clint looks up at it skeptically, already looking around for handholds.

“No,” Hill says, following his gaze. “No climbing.”

“Then how—” He watches her as she walks over to a tree, then presses on a knot. A panel of the tree slides open, revealing a handprint scanner. As soon as it registers her palm, the panel slides back into place, and there’s a grinding noise. In front of Clint, the rock face seems to vibrate. Then another panel opens, like in the tree, except this one is door-sized, and leads directly into the cliff face. There’s a long tunnel, dimly lit with little lanterns every twenty feet or so. It extends far past what Clint can see, fading into ominous darkness.

“Great,” Clint says to Bucky. “We’re about to walk into a horror movie.” _Or the Pit of Despair, depending on what kind of movie this is._

Somehow, he thinks horror is more likely. Given how the past days have gone.

Bucky tilts his head, then says, “Like Sweeney Todd?”

Clint snickers. “Yeah, sure. Still got the razor?”

“ _You’re a child,_ ” Natasha tells him in Russian, although he can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “Lead the way, Hill.”

Hill leads them down the hallway. The door grinds back into place, and darkness settles over them. And maybe he is a child, because the back of his neck prickles, an uneasiness rearing its head as the last of the booming echoes comes through the hallway. Clint’s never been scared of the dark, but he doesn’t like this at all—he can almost feel the mountain pressing in on him, enclosing him—

“Easy,” Bucky says, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Clint murmurs back.

“You’re shaking.”

He is, a little bit. He never used to be afraid of being underground, but he’s spent one too many nights in Hydra’s basement for that to be true anymore. “It’s fine. Bad memories.”

“We’re almost to the main part,” Hill says. “It opens up after that. This is just one of the entrances.”

True to her word, the tunnel starts to slope up. Clint can hear the booming echo of voices, and what almost sounds like running water. He casts a glance at Nat, who shrugs, and they keep following Hill.

The tunnel opens into a wide cavern, almost breathtaking in its enormity. It’s much more well lit in here, with lamps and lights set into the walls at various intervals. There’s maybe a football’s field worth of empty space where they are, and then the cavern gets more jagged towards the back, various outcroppings and rock shelves sticking out from the walls, with carved steps and ladders providing pathways up to several of them. Those are lit too, or at least the shorter ones are, all connected by makeshift bridges. In the far back is a waterfall, small and distant enough that the sound isn’t too much of a problem. It’s like an ancient, underground city, and Clint can’t stop himself from staring in awe.

“What the hell,” Bucky says, looking around. “How—was this just _here?_ ”

“Some of it,” Hill admits. “We did the rest with carefully placed explosives.” She points. “Water source, clean and fresh. We have a purifier system set up as well. Up there—” she gestures towards a couple rock shelves ”—those are the sleeping areas. We have about twenty camp beds, the rest is just blankets and padding. Bathroom’s back that way. Compostable toilets,” she adds at Clint’s questioning glance. “Over there is what passes for a mess hall, if we have enough people for it. Otherwise it’s mostly rations and whatever treats we can smuggle in.” She waves towards the open area, where there’s a mess of tables, computers, generators, and various other things scattered around. “This is SHIELD. Welcome home.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I’m...” He laughs. “I can’t believe you guys did that. I was half convinced you were operating out of shitty little safe houses and doing guerrilla raids in the middle of the night, the way Rumlow was talking some days.”

“That’s how we started,” she says seriously. “But then Fury made contact with me, and we were able to get this place set up. We’re rebuilding a network of agents, and making a plan to take Hydra down. It’s nowhere near the resources we had before this, but it’s better than anything we had when we got into this mess.”

“I’m impressed,” Nat says, slowly turning to look. “And you’re sure it’s secure?”

“The mountain itself provides security,” says another voice, and they all turn to see Fury striding over, traditional scowl in place. “Blocks any signals from getting in or out unless we want them to. We’re well-hidden, and the only people who know about this place have been vetted extensively, or they’re dead.” He eyes them all, smiling slightly when he sees Natasha. “Romanoff.”

“Fury,” Nat says, tone even. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“You too,” Fury says, and he shakes her hand in a slightly warmer way than usual before turning to Clint. “Barton. Barnes. Suppose I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“I told you,” Clint says. “She’s my best girl, I sure as hell wasn’t leaving her anywhere.” He looks at Fury. “Rollins is dead, by the way.”

“We heard.” Hill crosses her arms. “Rumlow’s gone dark.”

The cuffs around Clint’s wrists seem to pulse with electricity. “Dark...”

“As in, vanished. As in, they don’t know where he is. Best we can tell, he heard the news about Rollins and disappeared.” Her eyes are on him, sympathetic and piercing. “He’s looking for you.”

Clint swallows, trying not to betray his fear. “Yeah, I can imagine. Do _we_ know where he is?” 

“We’re working on it,” Hill says. “In the meantime, you’re safe here.”

Clint steps back a little, just to feel the solid press of Bucky at his back. “Yeah. Okay.”

Natasha’s hand wraps around his wrist, cool and firm against his skin. She squeezes once, then lets go. “Tell us about Insight,” she says. “What do we know?”

“No,” Fury says, and Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Not now. You three are dead on your feet.”

“You were the one who wanted us to book it here,” Clint says. “You—”

“We’ve gotten some reliable intel,” Hill says. “Recent, too. Insight won’t be launching until Saturday at the earliest, and we have someone who can inform us immediately if that changes. So we have a little bit of breathing room. And he’s right, you all look like hell.”

“Rough week,” Bucky says, and Clint bites back a snort.

“I know.” Hill points up at the sleeping areas. “Get some rest. A couple hours at least. Then we’ll get you some food, and then we can talk about Insight. But you’re no good to us the way you are right now.”

Clint thinks about protesting, but then he gets a solid look at Bucky, who is actually swaying on his feet a little. They’ve just been catnapping since the train, and it’s been hell and high stress since then. He has no idea how long it’s been for Nat since her last decent night’s sleep either. “Yeah,” he says, turning back to Hill. “You’re right.”

It’s a testament to how tired they are that neither Nat nor Bucky argue with him. They just follow along as Hill takes them over to the sleeping area, climbing up the makeshift ladder until they’re some thirty feet in the air. There’s two rows of ten camp beds, all empty, and a couple piles of bedding.

“Mine,” Natasha announces, dropping onto one of the beds.

Clint looks at them. “You’re not gonna fit,” he says to Bucky.

Bucky looks at the bed, then back at him. “You calling me fat?”

“What?” Clint protests, then sees his little grin. “Knock it off, I’m too tired for this shit.”

Bucky laughs quietly. “You won’t fit either, you know. You’re taller than I am.”

“I know.” Clint points at the pile of blankets and sleeping pads. “Could drag a couple of those pads together. That’ll fit both of us.”

“Both of us?”

Clint falters. “I mean...we don’t have to.”

“ _I’m_ okay with it,” Bucky says. “I wasn’t sure you would be. I know you said you and Rumlow shared a bed, and I didn’t want to...” He rubs a hand through his hair. “You said kissing was okay. I just thought—I didn’t want to assume? That anything else was. Since we talked about taking it slow.”

There’s a lump of emotion in Clint’s throat, impossible to swallow past. Bucky is looking at him with so much concern, so much _care_ that for a moment he can’t even breathe. Clint had been the one to talk about taking things slow, but the fact that Bucky is listening, and taking that into account, and considering how what he does affects Clint—it’s almost more than he can handle.

“You’re not Rumlow,” Clint says. “You—you make me feel safe. I won’t mind if it’s you.”

Bucky looks surprised for a moment. Then he smiles, slow and brilliant, like a sunrise. Clint loves the way he does it—just a hint at first, and then an explosion of warmth that takes his breath away. He wants to sit in its wake forever, wants to let it warm his bones. He would burn down kingdoms for that smile, he thinks, would tear apart anyone who tried to stop it. Bucky called him a miracle in the motel, but the truth is that _Bucky_ is the miracle—a man who should be long dead, but is instead unbelievably alive. He’s scarred, and a little broken, but so is Clint, and he’s never liked perfect people anyway.

“Come on,” he says, tugging Bucky’s hand. “We should sleep.”

They arrange some padding together, and Clint snags some blankets from a nearby bed. He pauses by Natasha as he brings them over. “You good?”

She looks at Bucky, then at him. “So you _are_ sleeping with him,” she says, and a tiny smile flicks over her face.

“This is the first time,” Clint admits, smiling back.

She nods. “Does he really make you feel safe?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “He does.”

Her eyes flick to Bucky, then back to him. “Okay,” is all she says, but there’s a world of unspoken things in those two syllables, and Clint honestly can’t tell how she feels about it.

He wonders how long that’ll be broken between them—or if it’ll ever be the same again. If it even _can_ be the same thing again. He could never read her like a book, but he knew her well enough that he could at least pick up on her general thoughts. Now she’s closed off, and he understands why, but it fucking _hurts_.

“Get some sleep,” is all he says, and pulls the blanket over her shoulder, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you,” she murmurs, and puts her hand over his before rolling further onto her side.

Clint crawls onto the sleeping pads. They’re not particularly comfortable, but he’s slept on worse things with worse people. “You a cuddling type?” he asks, laying on his back and shoving a blanket under his head. “Big spoon, little spoon? Or a keep your distance kind of guy?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, and he sounds sad about it. “I’m—I don’t know.” He holds up an arm. “We can try?”

Clint immediately slots against him, pressing his back against Bucky’s chest, and tangling their legs together. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, settling his left arm over Clint’s hip, tugging him even closer. “Go to sleep, doll.”

Clint snorts. “ _Doll?_ ”

“Is that not okay?”

“You’re adorable,” Clint says, twisting awkwardly to give him a kiss. “Also, very old-fashioned.”

“You like it?”

“I love it.” Clint takes his hand, winding metal fingers around his own. “It’s okay. Really, anything is except—well, you know.”

“I know.” Bucky pulls him even closer. “I remember. Sleep. I got you.”

“Kay,” Clint murmurs, and lets himself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Something like that,” Clint says, suddenly tense. Everything about this is screaming _danger danger danger_ , and he can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He does his best to get a handle on it, control the paranoia, bring it in and tamp it down. Just a basic infiltration mission, he’s done thousands of these, these are like second fucking nature—
> 
> The elevator dings, and Clint darts out, getting away from the guy before he starts screaming. He takes random turns, forcing himself not to run. Purposeful walking, that’s how he needs to play it. Like he’s got a job to do. He _does_ have a job to do.

“Okay,” Hill says, gesturing to the table. “This is the plan.”

Clint looks down at the helicarrier blueprints spread out over the surface. “This is the plan?”

“This is the plan.” She taps the papers. “There are computers for the targeting systems here. Right now, those systems are locked onto—” she thumbs on a tablet and grits her teeth “—over a million people, currently.”

“Shit,” Clint mutters.

“Exactly.”

Nat leans over his shoulder, studying the blueprint. “You want to adjust the targeting system,” she says, perceptive as always. “To what?”

“To each other,” Fury says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card, setting it on the table. It looks like an oversized computer chip, about the size of his palm. “With these.”

“With these,” Clint echoes. “And what are these?”

“System overrides. We can’t get into the system from the outside, not with the resources we have. We need a direct line of access. These are like a backdoor into Hydra’s code. Once they’re in place, we should be able to slip in unnoticed.”

“And then?”

“And then we change the targets.”

“To the other carriers?”

Hill taps her fingers on the blueprints. “Exactly,” she says. “We’re going to use their own damn weapons and knock them out of the sky.”

Clint looks at Nat. “Told you so,” he says.

“Don’t be smug,” she murmurs, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. “So how exactly are we placing these cards?”

“They have to be put in manually,” Fury says. “There’s no other way to do it.”

“Manually,” Bucky echoes, voice flat. “As in, someone has to go into the helicarriers and place these in the right slots?”

Fury nods. “That’s the only way this is going to work, unfortunately. We can’t hack in remotely. We’ve tried. Stark has tried. If we’re going to destroy Insight, this is how we do it.”

Clint blinks. “Wait. You’ve talked with Tony?”

“We have communication. It’s limited.” Fury crosses his arms. “No, you can’t talk to him.”

“Wasn’t asking,” Clint mutters, although he very much _would_ like to do that, even just to reassure himself that Tony’s okay. “What about Bruce? You know where he is?”

“We do. He’s fine. He’s in Nevada.”

“Why?”

Hill purses her lips. “Barton,” she says softly. “The less you know—”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint interrupts. “Fine. I get it.” He picks up the card, holding it by the edges. “Three carriers. Three cards.” He looks at Nat and Bucky. “Three people. That’s the score?”

Fury nods. “That’s the score.”

“That’s a hell of a job,” Nat says, looking over the blueprints. “The security on these was watertight under SHIELD, I imagine under Hydra—”

“We have a way in,” Fury says. “Someone on the inside. We have it all planned out.”

“Why haven’t you sent someone in already?”

“I was waiting for someone I could trust,” Fury says, voice colder. “Having your life’s work ripped out from under you is more jarring than you’d think.” He scowls and taps the blueprints. “Are you in or out?”

“Of course I’m in,” Clint says immediately. “A chance to make Hydra blow up their own evil plans? You don’t even have to ask.”

“I’m in too,” Nat says. “Someone has to watch his back.”

“Excuse you, I’m perfectly capable of getting myself out of trouble.” Clint nudges her with his elbow. “Who saved whose ass in Afghanistan?”

“Congratulations,” she says dryly. “You have one against my…oh, forty-five? Forty-six?”

“Fifty-eight, actually, but who’s counting?” Clint grins at her, then turns to Bucky. “You in?”

“Course I am,” Bucky says. “Someone has to help her watch you.” There’s a slight smile on his face, and it only gets wider as Clint scowls at him. “Like I said before— they stole from me too.” He turns to Fury. “How are we getting in?”

“We have disguises,” Hill says. “Digital face masks, identification, the whole nine yards. Essentially, it’s an infiltration job. You three go in as techs, you plant these, you get out. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I assume the computers are heavily guarded,” Natasha says. “How are we supposed to get close without anyone getting suspicious?”

“We’re going to coordinate a massive, ship-wide failure on all three helicarriers,” Hill says. “They’ll send in the techs to fix it. We’ve tested it already on one, and it should work again.”

“ _Should_ is not really inspiring,” Clint mutters, studying the blueprints.

“It’s the best we can do,” she says. “There’s a lot of variables in the air, Barton. All we can do is try.”

“Yeah, I know.” Clint rubs a hand over his face. He’s still exhausted, despite a solid five hours of sleep—nightmare-free for once, probably thanks to Bucky being curled around him—and he’s tired of _trying_. He just wants this whole fucking thing to be over. Wants to take Nat and Bucky and all his friends and fuck off to a deserted island somewhere, far away from Hydra. See what Bucky looks like when he’s all tanned and relaxed and dripping with ocean water and—

“Clint,” Nat says, and Clint drags himself out of the thought. “You okay?”

“Tired,” he murmurs. “Ready to be done with this shit.” He shakes it off. “Okay. When are we going in?”

“Well,” Hill says, gesturing to the blueprints. “How do you feel about today?”

Clint blinks. “So soon?”

“We have everything we need,” Fury says. “We were waiting on you. Now you’re here. The more time we have to mess with their systems, the better. This isn’t the only op we’re running, but it’s the most important. A lot of other things hinge on you three successfully completing this. ”

“Won’t Hydra notice something off about the targeting system?”

Hill shakes her head. “No. If Stark’s plan works, it’ll keep going as usual until the critical moment.”

“I’m hearing a lot of ‘ifs’ in this plan,” Clint says. “If we can get it. If the failure works. If Stark programmed these correctly.” He glances at Nat.

“We’ve done more with less,” she says, shrugging. “And I don’t think we really have a choice. We’re running out of time and options.”

Clint sighs. Both points are true, but that doesn’t mean he has to like them. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

“How are we hiding these?” Bucky asks, reaching down and taking Clint’s arm. He holds it up, displaying the cuffs. “They’re a dead giveaway, and then there’s my arm—”

“Your arm can be disguised,” Hill says. “That’s easy. We have the tech for that; we can manipulate one of the facial disguises to cover a whole limb. _Those_ are a little harder to hide.” She studies the cuffs. “We’ll just have to cover them up. We don’t have enough masks to hide both of them.”

Clint grits his teeth, cursing Rumlow for the thousandth time. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

“Get them ready,” Fury orders Hill. “I’ll speak with our asset, confirm the timing.”

Bucky flinches at the word, although it’s such a small motion that Clint’s probably the only one who notices. Still, he reaches out, winding his fingers into the metal hand and offering a quick squeeze. Bucky squeezes back. “I’m okay,” he murmurs.

They get ready, wriggling into Hydra uniforms, and putting on digital masks, and outfitting themselves with comms and other equipment. Clint takes the computer card and tucks it into a pocket. The fate of the world, literally in his hands. It’s a hell of a feeling.

“We’ll have to keep talking to a minimum,” he says to Bucky. “Basic check-ins only.”

“I know.”

Clint tries for a smile. “On a scale of one to breaking into a Black Widow facility, how scared are you?”

“I’m terrified,” Bucky says, a shaky laugh coming from him. “Which is funny, really. I’ve killed hundreds of people—most of them trying to kill me back—and _this_ is what’s got me shaking.”

“Fate of the world,” Clint says, tapping the pocket, and Bucky nods. “We’ll be okay. High stakes or not, it’s like Hill said. When it comes down to it, it’s just an infiltration mission. Get in, get out, and don’t get caught.”

He looks at Bucky. He’s got a different face on—red hair and freckles, which is…odd—but the eyes are the same, that shining blue that Clint first noticed all those weeks ago. There’s the weight of a hundred lifetimes in those eyes, Clint thinks sadly, and he wonders if it’ll take a hundred more for that to go away.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, and he reaches forward, putting his left hand on Clint’s face. It’s weird to feel the chill of metal emanating from it, but not see the corresponding silver. “We’ll be fine. Easy mission.”

Clint nods, tugging him into a soft kiss. “We’ll be fine,” he echoes, and prays to whoever’s listening that that’s the case.

He takes a moment to hide the red book, tucking it into a crack in the wall before covering it with rocks, just in case. It’s not super secure, but it’s better than walking it into Hydra. Then he follows Hill as she leads them out of a different entrance, following a path through the woods to another small clearing where there’s a Quinjet waiting for them. “You’ll fly this right to the Triskelion,” she says. “We’ve already programmed it to look like it’s coming from somewhere else, so you don’t have to worry about that. People are constantly flying in and out of there anyway, it shouldn’t be a problem, but in case it is—” she gestures to the jet “—there’s cargo in the back. You’re making a delivery.”

“Of what?”

“Helicarrier computer parts. They’re constructing a fourth one, now.” Hill grimaces. “Problem for another day. Are you three ready?”

“Yeah,” Clint says.

“You’re clear on where the chips need to go? Any other questions?”

They all shake their heads.

“We’re timing the failure for fifteen-hundred hours. Should give you enough time to get there and get in position.” She stays in the tree line and nods at the jet. “Break a leg.”

Clint lets Natasha pilot this one, staying in the back with Bucky as the plane takes off. He watches the ground get distant, the trees fading into a mass of green as they fly high and fast, heading south. The ground blurs beneath them, an indistinguishable mass of color that’s eventually lost to the cloud layer.

He sighs when it disappears into shades of grey and turns to Bucky, who’s just kind of distantly staring into space. “How do you feel about islands?”

Bucky blinks. “What?”

“Islands. Deserted islands. Beaches.”

“Can’t say I’ve thought much about them. Why?”

Clint shrugs. “I’d like to take you to one. When this is over.”

“Yeah?” There’s a slight smile on his face. “And do what?”

“I don’t know.” Clint rolls his shoulders. “Relax. Long walks on the beach. Poke washed up jellyfish with a stick. Drink mojitos on the sand. Try surfing.”

That makes Bucky laugh. “Okay,” he says. “Sure.”

“I think you’d like it,” Clint says. “Just a chance to breathe.”

“Breathing sounds nice,” Bucky murmurs, looking towards the cockpit again. “You really think there’s gonna be an after?”

“I have to hope,” Clint says honestly. “I—it’s the only thing keeping me going, Bucky. All those nights when Hydra had me—I didn’t stay up and think about revenge, or killing, or getting back at them somehow. I thought about…” He trails off, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“Beaches,” Bucky says, and his expression goes distant again. “I get it. I used to dream about rollercoasters, back when I could still dream.” There’s a wistful look in his eyes, like he’s reaching for a long-forgotten memory. “It kept me sane. Kept me…me, when they tried real hard to take it all away. For whatever reason, I always remembered that.”

“We’ll go on some,” Clint promises. “As soon as this is over. Every rollercoaster in the country. We’ll make a field trip out of it.”

“I thought we were having a James Bond marathon,” Bucky murmurs, a smile tugging at his mouth. “And margaritas.”

“We can do that too,” Clint says. “We can do any damn thing we want.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees. “As long as you’re with me.”

Clint grins at him. “Buddy, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“You can’t,” Nat calls back, and Clint jumps a little. Not that he thought their conversation was _private_ , but he hadn’t realized she was actively listening.

She flicks the autopilot on and stands up. It’s jarring to see her with a different face, but there’s something about the way she’s leaning against the chair that just screams _Natasha_. Puts him at ease, a little bit. Calms the panicky animal side of his brain, the part that’s absolutely losing its shit over what’s about to go down, and is having a hard time focusing on the mission.

“Trust me,” she says to Bucky, eyes on Clint. “He was supposed to kill me, decided to _adopt_ me instead, and now I can’t get rid of him.”

“But you love me,” Clint says, flashing a crooked smile at her. “You love me so goddamn much.”

“I do,” she agrees. “Most of the time.”

Clint starts to snark something back at her when something out the window catches his eye. “D.C.,” he says, pointing, and Nat turns as the skyline emerges through the cloud layer. “Almost showtime.”

As if on cue, a chirping sound splits the air, and a face appears on the screen. Natasha moves to answer, and Clint turns back to Bucky. “Questions? You good?”

“I’m good,” Bucky says, looking determined. “Let’s get this done.”

They land at the Triskelion, right in the cargo bay with all the other Quinjets. Like it’s a regular fucking day, and they’re just coming back home from a mission, no big deal. Clint half-expects Coulson to greet them as they walk down the ramp, that omniscient look on his face as he directs them to a briefing room. There’d be a cup of coffee there for Clint, and a cup of tea for Natasha, and maybe some donuts, depending on how the mission went—

“Easy,” Nat breathes to him as she walks past, and Clint nods. _It’s just a mission. You can do this._

A tech at the bottom of the ramp holds up a hand. He’s got glasses and a clipboard, and a hurried look on his face—Clint vaguely recognizes him, actually, although he can’t recall the guy’s name. “For the helicarriers?” he asks, pointing at the boxes in the jet.

“Yes,” Natasha says.

“Good. Load them on that truck over there, take them to the Insight bay.” He marks something off on his clipboard and scurries away.

“Security’s real tight,” Bucky comments dryly, grabbing a box.

“This isn’t a secure place,” Clint says, grabbing another one. “Too many people coming and going. The helicarriers are in the Insight Bay. Easier to control the access points there. That’s our first test.”

He’s right, although it’s not much of a test at all. They load the boxes on the truck, then climb on the back along with a couple of other people, and the driver takes them through the facility to the Insight Bay. There’s a cursory ID check, and then the guard wave them through, the truck driving into the massive complex containing the three helicarriers.

Clint glances at Natasha as they go through. _That was easy,_ he thinks, and he knows she’s thinking the same thing. He’s not sure if easy’s a good thing or not, honestly. On one hand, Hydra being complacent means good things for SHIELD. On the other hand, they must also be pretty confident about the helicarriers being impenetrable, which doesn’t bode well for Clint and his team.

He shakes the thought away. It’s not the time to worry about if it’s going to work. He just needs to get in, plant the card, get out. Simple infiltration. Don’t get caught.

There’s a commotion, suddenly. People running around, an intense flurry of movement and excitement that makes Clint pause where he’s hanging off the back of the truck. “That’ll be our distraction,” he whispers to Bucky, who nods. A moment later, all the lights flicker, the entire bay plunging into darkness for a moment. After a heart-stopping second of terror, they kick back on, making everyone wince.

“Power failure,” says one of the other techs sitting in the back with them. Clint glances at him. “It’s happened before. We’re gonna have to get the computers back online again. They always get fucked when the power goes off.”

“You’d think they’d be able to bring them online themselves,” another one grumbles. “I don’t see why it has to be done manually.”

“We have to check the hardware, dumbass,” the first tech says. “Make sure everything’s functioning perfectly. Remember the broken circuit boards on the second one? Renni almost got shot over those.”

“Oh yeah.”

The truck stops, and they all get off. Bucky exchanges one last look with Clint, then melds into the crowd, disappearing into the press of bodies. On his other side, Nat does the same.

 _Just a mission,_ Clint thinks, squaring his shoulders, and then he follows his own group up into the massive helicarrier. It’s easy enough to lose them; all he does is hang back on the edges, then disappear down another hallway. He knows helicarriers, he practically lived on one for a year. If he can get to the end of the hallway, there should be a vent system he can crawl into. He can get up to the top area from there, and then from that point he should be able to slip onto the catwalks without too much trouble.

But when he gets to the end of the hallway, there’s no vent system. Clint glares at the blank wall for a moment, then backtracks a bit, taking the elevator instead. He wishes he had a toolbag or something, _anything_ in his hands to make him look like he actually belongs—

Raised voices make him jump, and he quickly presses himself into a corner before remembering that he’s wearing a fucking disguise and doesn’t _need_ to hide. Christ, he’s so fucking paranoid, he’s going to give himself a heart attack before he plants the stupid chip.

Clint jabs the elevator button again, and steps into the open doors. They hang there for a second, long enough for him to hear the voices turn into words.

“—fucking sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, who the hell else would it be?”

“Did you report you saw him? They’ve been looking—”

“Are you kidding me, I’m not trying to get—”

The doors close, and Clint doesn’t get to hear the rest of the statement. He just slumps against the back wall, fiddling with cuffs around his wrists. They’re covered by his sleeves, but he’s _so_ aware of them against his skin, more than he has been in months. He knows they can’t be activated, but he swears there’s a prickle of electricity underneath them, lighting his skin up—

_“Understand me?”_

_“I understand,” Clint says, eyes on the floor as they walk through the hallways. He knows the responses by heart, but he’s not really listening. He doesn’t even know what Rumlow’s problem is this time. Some imagined slight of attitude, probably. Or maybe not imagined—Clint has trouble keeping his mouth shut most days; he probably does deserve this. After being Rumlow’s prisoner for months, he should have some more control over himself, really. Or should at least be better at checking Rumlow’s moods, see if he’s willing to tolerate Clint being an asshole._

_“Good,” Rumlow says. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”_

_“Yeah,” Clint says, and he glances to the side, looking through the open door to Sitwell’s office._

_His feet stutter to a stop of their own accord, and he_ stares _, because—_

_Because that’s_ Steve _._

_Steve Rogers, standing there in his Captain America gear like nothing’s ever changed, like he’s just waiting for a mission brief, or for Fury to give him an order._

_Except_ everything _has changed, it’s like looking through a warped mirror. Steve’s hair is short—not that he had long hair before or anything, but this is brutally short, practically buzzed. It makes him look...cold, almost, especially when coupled with the dead look in his eyes, and the tense way he’s holding himself._

_“Barton,” Rumlow snaps, annoyance leaking into his voice. He’s almost a hundred feet down the hallway, and Clint should go to him, should shake it off as being lost in his thoughts—_

_But he doesn’t. Instead, he darts inside. He doesn’t bother closing the door, focused instead on the man in front of him. “Steve,” he says, voice thick. “Cap.”_

_“Barton,” says another voice, and Clint glances over to see Sitwell looking at him with mild surprise from behind his desk. “Where’s—”_

_“Steve,” Clint says again, ignoring Sitwell. “Steve, it’s me, it’s Clint.” He reaches forward almost unconsciously. “Are you—“_

_Steve yanks his arm away, cold indifference on his face. “Who the hell is Steve?”_

_Clint chokes on his own breath for a moment, and then the cuffs go off, and he crumples to the ground, fighting back a scream. It’s been awhile, really, and he forgets between them just how much it fucking hurts—_

_Distantly, he hears Rumlow say something to Sitwell. Then a hand closes around his arm, and he’s roughly yanked to his feet. “Come here,” Rumlow snarls in his ear. “You little_ shit _, I should—”_

_“Steve,” Clint mumbles, reaching for him. “Steve, it’s me, you_ know _me, it’s Clint—”_

_“Get over here,” Rumlow growls, and he drags Clint into the hallway, his grip bruising. “What did we_ just fucking talk _about, Barton? Do you ever listen to a goddamn thing I say?”_

_“You talk so fucking much,” Clint mutters, struggling to find his feet as Rumlow keeps dragging him down the hall. “Hard to keep track.”_

_Rumlow shoves him into the wall, and Clint grunts as his head cracks into it. Then there’s an arm pressed against his throat, and Rumlow’s right up in his space, and Clint—_

_Honestly, Clint just doesn’t care. It’s_ mundane _by now, the posturing and the showing off. Rumlow’s snarling something at him, teeth bared, but Clint can barely bring himself to listen properly. All he can think about is Steve, and the blankness on his face, and the way he didn’t even know his own name._ What are they doing to him?

_He takes a punch he’s not expecting, and it rocks him enough to send him to the floor, knocking him right out of his thoughts. “What—”_

_“Get up,” Rumlow says._

_Clint grits his teeth and gets back to his feet in time to take another punch, knocking him back down. “Rumlow—”_

_“Get the fuck up.”_

_“Are you gonna knock me down again?”_

_“I gave you a fucking order, Barton.”_

_“I_ heard _you.” Clint gets up again. This time he catches Rumlow’s fist, which jars his arm all to hell, but at least saves his face._

_Then Rumlow’s other fist lands in his gut, and Clint doubles over in time to get a knee to the chin, which knocks him back down anyway. He sprawls onto the floor, face in the carpet, and fights the absurd urge to cry. It’s not fucking fair. None of this is fair._

_“Get up,” Rumlow says, voice cold._

_Clint slowly pushes up to his knees, wiping a trickle of blood from where he’d bit his lip. His ears are ringing. “I’m sorry,” he says, and flicks his eyes up to Rumlow before lowering them to the floor. “Please. I’m sorry.”_

_“Oh, sweetheart,” Rumlow says, and the fake sympathy makes Clint’s skin crawl. “I said get up.”_

There’s a song that goes like this, _Clint thinks, as he gets up and gets knocked down a fourth time. He doesn’t bother defending himself this time, just takes the hit and catches himself on the carpet, jarring his wrist again._

_Rumlow’s hand winds into his hair, and he pulls, yanking Clint further up on his knees. “I can do this all day,” he says, mouth twisting in a sneer, and the words just shatter Clint all that much more. “Do I need to, or do you think you can be a good boy for me?”_

_“I can be good,” Clint says, unable to look him in the eye. His face flushes with shame. He can take a lot of things from Rumlow, but having to say that always makes him feel so small and_ worthless _. “I can. I’m sorry. I—I got stupid, I shouldn’t have done that.”_

_“I know,” Rumlow purrs, and the grip on his hair loosens, turning into petting. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I should’ve expected it from you.”_

_The words coil in his chest, making Clint flush even hotter. “I’m sorry,” he says, unsure what else to say. “I’m—I won’t do it again.”_

_“Yeah, you will,” Rumlow sighs. “Nothing ever seems to stick with you. In one ear and out the other, I swear. How’d you even survive without me in the field?”_

I’m a good agent _, Clint wants to scream, but that’s not really true, is it? He’s been doing stupid shit his whole life, and he nearly got himself killed half a dozen times over before Nat joined up with SHIELD, and she’s been saving his ass ever since then. He’s okay at what he does, and she fills in the large amount of blanks._

_“Come on,” Rumlow says, a satisfied joy in his eyes, and he pulls Clint to his feet. He’s gentle now, the punishment over—or at least stalled for the moment, Clint has trouble telling with him sometimes—and he leads Clint towards the elevator. “Lobby,” he says, and the elevator starts descending._

_Clint rubs at the skin underneath the cuffs. He’s got scars forming from the skin rubbing off and re-healing. If these ever come off—something that’s looking more and more unlikely—he’s going to have permanent reminders._

_“You know,” Rumlow says casually, leaning against the wall. “This is the elevator we caught Cap in.”_

_Clint drops his wrists and grips the railing. “I thought you caught him by the memorial.”_

_“We started it here.” Rumlow taps the glass. “He jumped out this window. Caught me by surprise, I’ll admit. Didn’t think he had it in him.”_

_He steps closer to Clint. “It was a good fight, you know. He almost made it. Knocked most of us down for the count.”_

Wished he’d knocked you out permanently.

_Rumlow reaches down and takes one of his wrists. “Had a set of cuffs on him too,” he says, voice low. “Mag cuffs. He’s stronger than you are, though. He fought ‘em good.”_

_“He’s a super soldier,” Clint says, keeping his eyes on the window as the elevator sinks—far too slowly for his taste. “He’s always gonna be stronger than me.”_

_“He fought a lot longer than you did,” Rumlow agrees. “He’s still fighting. We have to keep fucking his brain. He hasn’t figured it out yet.” He pins Clint’s wrist against the wall by his head, smirking as his breathing hitches a little. “Not like you. You know the score.”_

_“I’m still fighting,” Clint says, unsure if he’s trying to convince himself or Rumlow._

_“You snap sometimes,” Rumlow says. “It’s cute. Like a puppy.”_

_“Fuck you,” Clint mutters, but there’s no heat to it, and Rumlow just laughs before pinning his other wrist up. The hold isn’t even strong, and that’s what kills Clint the most. Rumlow’s just got him loosely pinned, and Clint_ isn’t _fighting him. He’s not even considering it._

_Christ. Rumlow’s right. He’s so broken._

_Clint doesn’t bother fighting the kiss either, just lets Rumlow lick into his mouth without any protest at all. He closes his eyes, tries to pretend he’s with someone else, anywhere else—_

_Rumlow’s hand presses his wrist into the wall, then lets go, wandering down Clint’s body. Clint follows the unspoken order, keeping his hand where it is._

_“You know,” Rumlow murmurs against his mouth, “if we’d caught him here, we would’ve done this.”_

_Clint takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, unable to hide the bitterness. “Course you would’ve.”_

_“We almost had him,” Rumlow says, cupping his hand over Clint’s dick, rubbing him through his pants. Clint shifts uncomfortably. “We would’ve done it right here. Just like this. Wouldn’t even have drugged him.”_

_“Did you drug him?” Clint asks, shifting again._

_“Ended up doing that, yeah. Shame, really. I kinda wanted to watch him crack a little. I bet he breaks as pretty as you do.”_

_Clint grits his teeth. “Mm,” is all he says. He knows Rumlow’s looking for reactions, looking for something he can twist a knife into. Clint’s determined not to give him anything._

_“That’s all you got to say?” Rumlow’s chest rumbles with a dark chuckle. “Use your words, sweetheart.”_

_“The hell do you want me to say?” Clint looks at him, finally, hoping the hatred in his voice isn’t as strong as what he’s feeling. “You’re talking about raping and torturing one of the best guys I know, and you what—you want commentary on it? Want to hear my thoughts? You know_ exactly _what I think of that, asshole, and—”_

_He cuts off, the hatred suddenly directed at himself._ Stop giving him ammunition, you fucking idiot.

_But Rumlow doesn’t appear mad. He’s grinning like a shark, all teeth and predatory edges, and he steps back entirely. Clint lets his hands drop back to his side._

_“See? Like a little puppy,” Rumlow says again, and he pats Clint on the arm. “It’s adorable.” The doors open, and he snaps his fingers. “Heel, boy.”_

_“I think I liked tiger better,” Clint mutters, but he follows, like he does every time. What the hell else can he do?_

Clint drags himself from the memory. He’s still in the elevator, hasn’t even pushed the fucking button yet. “Get it together,” he mutters, and reaches for the display.

Before his finger can make contact, the door opens again. “—ucking delusional,” snaps a guy as he steps in, phone to his ear. “He’s not here.” A pause, and then, “Yes, I’m sure! You really think he’s stupid enough to just walk in here? He’s not an idiot, he—”

He stops when he sees Clint, eyes flicking over him in disinterest before flashing his badge at the display and pressing a button. Clint offers him a slight smile, the usual sorry-we-have-to-share-an-elevator look, but the man doesn’t appear to notice. He just scowls as the door closes, apparently not interested with whatever he’s hearing in his ear.

“I’ll call you if I see anything,” he finally says, and shoves the phone back in his pocket. His eyes move back to Clint again, hanging around his wrists for the briefest moment. Clint tugs the sleeves further down, hiding the hint of silver that had slipped out.

The man coughs and pulls the phone back out, fingers flying over the screen. “You new here?”

“Something like that,” Clint says, suddenly tense. Everything about this is screaming _danger danger danger_ , and he can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He does his best to get a handle on it, control the paranoia, bring it in and tamp it down. Just a basic infiltration mission, he’s done thousands of these, these are like second fucking nature—

The elevator dings, and Clint darts out, getting away from the guy before he starts screaming. He takes random turns, forcing himself not to run. Purposeful walking, that’s how he needs to play it. Like he’s got a job to do. He _does_ have a job to do.

Something in the back of his mind must know that, because he blinks himself back into full awareness to find himself on the catwalks, facing the targeting system. There are a few other other people up here, but no one even spares him a second glance. They’re too busy with tools, fixing various things and engaging in conversations that Clint can’t follow.

“Stay _here_ ,” he mutters to himself. He’s got to quit letting himself get swallowed in his fear and his memories. There isn’t _time_ for that.

He pulls the chip from his pocket and places it right where Hill told him to, removing the other card. There’s a little chirp as it clicks into place, and the lights flash green.

 _Fate of the world,_ he thinks, turning around and walking back out. _And now it’s time to go._

“Locked in,” he says, voice low.

“Almost there,” comes Bucky’s familiar voice, and something in Clint eases a bit.

“I’m done,” Nat says, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ll meet you boys back at the jet.”

“Sounds good,” Clint says, dropping the extra chip on the ground and stepping on it. He scoops up the broken pieces, tossing them in the nearby trash chute.

He walks down the hallway, following the same path he took to get up here, or at least his best approximation of it. He doesn’t _really_ remember how he got up here.

But he figures it out after a bit. He’s about four steps from the lift that’ll take him down when someone grabs his arm. “Come with me,” says a man, dressed in the same kind of jumpsuit Clint is. He’s a little shorter than Clint, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead with the SHIELD logo on it. He has a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a harried expression on his face. “We need another pair of hands over here.”

“Okay,” Clint says, because protesting is going to cause more trouble than it’s worth. “Sure.”

He leads him back up into the helicarrier and down a long hallway. “In here,” he says, pointing into a room, and practically shoves him inside.

Clint stumbles through the door, barely managing to catch himself on opposite wall. The door closes behind him with a slam, and Clint twists, fear and adrenaline dumping into his veins. “Hey,” he starts, and then he freezes, because the guy’s face is _fizzling,_ shimmering and sparking as he pulls off a digital mask with one hand, the other aiming a gun at Clint.

“Hey yourself,” he says, his voice morphing into a rasp that Clint still hears in his fucking nightmares. He tosses the mask to the side, then grins widely. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

“Rumlow,” Clint says, and that’s all he gets out before Rumlow shoots him in the chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me about this on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d thought maybe if they did ever reach this moment, Rumlow would walk away. Would decide Clint’s too much trouble, and toss him to the wolves. It would be preferable, in a way. But there’s a possessiveness in Rumlow’s eyes, a hunger warring with the anger that he’s keeping so carefully off his face, and Clint suddenly realizes that all he’s managed to do is just make Rumlow want him more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just...mind the tags. You know the drill by now.

Waking up is an absolute _bitch_.

His mouth is dry, his head is pounding, and his chest feels like something very large is sitting on it. An elephant, maybe. A Mac truck. An elephant driving a Mac truck. A whole herd of them.

“Christ,” he wheezes, except it comes out as more of a screech. It hurts to _breathe_.

He opens his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what the hell happened. He was with Bucky—no, he was alone. On the helicarrier. And then there was—

Clint suddenly recognizes the ceiling. He should have the moment he saw it, god knows he’s stared at it enough nights. And there’s a familiar pressure around his wrists, and the pillow underneath him smells like—

_Rumlow_ , Clint thinks, and he sits up, sheer animal panic overtaking everything else. He yanks at the cuffs around his wrists, and the chain connecting him to the floor. “No,” he mutters, doing it again. “No, no, no no no no—”

He got out. He was _out_ , he was _free_ , he was—

“Bucky!” he yells, but that just comes out as a cough too. “Buck—”

“Mornin’, sunshine,” comes a drawling voice from the door, and Clint closes his eyes, unable to face it.

It’s not fair, it’s not _fucking_ fair. He got _out_ , he was free. He had Bucky, and Nat, and they were taking down Insight—

A hand slides into his hair, yanking his head back. “Look at me,” Rumlow murmurs, sugar sweet, and Clint does, meeting his eyes with a surprising amount of difficulty. “There you are. How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

Clint shudders hard, and a sharp grin splits Rumlow’s face. “Feel like shit,” Clint says, trying for some of his usual bravado. “Ribs hurt.”

“I know,” Rumlow says, faux-sympathetic. “It’s not _nice_ when someone shoots you in the chest, is it?”

He presses hard on Clint, right over where he was shot. Clint chokes at the pain of it, a series of bright spots flaring across his vision. “Stop,” he wheezes. “Rumlow— _stop_.”

Rumlow stops. He lets go entirely, and allows Clint to scoot away, scrambling back on the bed as far as the chain will let him. “Lucky for you,” he says, “yours was just a tranquilizer. Hurts like a bitch at close range, but you’ll be fine.” He lifts his shirt, then, and shows off the bruises on his own chest. “You hurt my feelings, you know. I was being nice to you, and you shot me.”

“Nice—you call what happened—” Clint scrambles for the words, shaking with fury and terror and a dozen other emotions. “The plane—what you let them do—”

Rumlow shakes his head. “Trust me,” he says, voice low. “Compared to what’s coming? That was a fucking walk in the park.” He picks up the chain and tugs on it. “You’re going to be wishing you were back there by the time I’m through with you, sweetheart.”

“You’re not touching me again,” Clint snarls, pulling back on the chain. “How did you even find me, they said you went dark—”

Rumlow grins. “They?”

Clint clamps his mouth shut, cursing himself. His heart is thundering in his chest, like it’s trying to beat out of his body, and he’s trembling hard enough to make the chain move. He needs to calm the fuck down, needs to get himself under control—he _knows_ things now, knows information and names and locations, he can’t let any of it slip—

“Calm down,” Rumlow says, still grinning. It’s more feral now, almost a little deranged. “I know you went running to SHIELD the second you got out. I don’t give a shit about that. Not right now.”

Clint swallows. “No?”

“No.” He tugs the chain. “We’ll discuss that later.” He reaches over to the nightstand, picks up a bottle of water. Clint hadn’t noticed it. “You thirsty?”

Clint clenches his jaw, refuses to answer. He’s not playing any of Rumlow’s games. Not this time. He’s going to find a way out of this, going to get back to Bucky and Nat and SHIELD. He’s going to kill Rumlow and take down Hydra and fucking get his home back—

“Gonna give you a choice,” Rumlow says, reading his resistance far too easily. “You can drink now, or you can drink when we’re done.”

_That_ gets Clint’s attention. “Done with what?”

Rumlow doesn’t say anything. Just holds up the water with an expectant expression. “Well?”

“Fine,” Clint mutters, because he’s sure that whatever’s coming, he’s going to want to be in top shape for it. Considering he already feels like death... “Whatever.” He holds out his hands.

“Come here,” Rumlow says, and tugs on the chain, forcing Clint to shuffle closer. He cracks the bottle open. “Good boy. Open up.”

Clint stares at him for a moment, then at the water. Then back at him. “No,” he protests, but it’s weak. He’s already made up his mind to drink, the _how_ is just window dressing, and they both know it.

It’s frightening, how quickly they sink into their old dynamic. Rumlow just waits, patient and even, and lets Clint work out his inner resistance—his pride, really. When Clint finally opens his mouth, shameful, it just gets a smile and a soft “Good boy.” He’s nice about it, too, measuring swallows carefully and giving him time in between sips.

It’s not what Clint had expected—he’s pictured this moment, this meeting, a thousand different ways. Most of them ending bloody, some of them ending badly, but not this. Never this.

He’d thought maybe if they did ever reach this moment, Rumlow would walk away. Would decide Clint’s too much trouble, and toss him to the wolves. It would be preferable, in a way. But there’s a possessiveness in Rumlow’s eyes, a hunger warring with the anger that he’s keeping so carefully off his face, and Clint suddenly realizes that all he’s managed to do is just make Rumlow want him more.

Rumlow is watching him, a calm expression on his face. Clint hates it. He would prefer yelling, a beating, something physical that he can take. This—the calmness, the blankness—is unsettling, and it’s _terrifying_ , and Clint starts trembling again, so keyed up he can hardly take it. He feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. It’s not _fair_ , he was _out_ —

“Baby,” Rumlow says, setting the water down. “What’s got you so worked up, hmm?”

“Just do it,” Clint blurts out. “Whatever you’re going to do—just fucking get it over with.”

He tries for indifference, or maybe anger. Something other than terror. But his voice shakes in the middle of it, and they both hear it.

“Alright,” Rumlow says, still so settled. “Lay down.”

“I—” Clint starts, looking at the bed. “What—”

“Lay down. Get comfortable.” That last bit is said with a smirk, like there’s something he knows that Clint doesn’t. Which is probably true.

Still, Clint shakes his head. “I’m—no, I’m not _participating_ —”

“If I have to put you there,” Rumlow warns, his voice suddenly getting harder, “you’ll be making this much worse for yourself. I’ve told you before, you make stupid choices, you face the fucking consequences for them.” He narrows his eyes. “I’m already pissed off, sweetheart. How much deeper do you want to dig this grave?”

Clint believes him. He unequivocally, wholly believes him. He wants to fight, wants to rage and scream and pull at his chain, try and attack Rumlow, but he _knows_ it’s going to get him fuck-all except exactly what Rumlow just promised. He knows, because he’s _tried_ before.

He looks down at the bed again, then back at Rumlow. He should just listen. Shouldn’t make it worse for himself. Should just be a good boy, get through whatever’s coming, then find a better time to make his attack.

“Tick tock,” Rumlow says, and Clint lunges at him anyway, because _fuck_ this guy.

It’s a quick fight. It was always going to be. Between his hands being cuffed together, and the chain, Clint’s at a disadvantage before they even start. They exchange a couple hits, and then Rumlow whacks him in the head hard enough to make him see stars for a moment. Rumlow takes advantage of it, shoving him back on the bed, straddling his hips. He backhands Clint hard across the face one way, then the other. The second time splits his lip open, and the copper taste of his own blood floods his mouth.

“Fuck off,” he croaks, and Rumlow just bares his teeth in a ferocious smile before grabbing his hands and forcing them overhead. Clint struggles, but there’s nothing he can do, no leverage he can get before they’re secured overhead, the floor chain slithering off the bed as Rumlow disconnects the cuffs and attaches his wrists to opposite sides of the bed. It’s just rope, rough against his skin, but with the way Rumlow ties it, Clint knows there’s no way he’s slipping out of it.

He tries anyway. Rumlow watches him struggle for a moment, then nods in satisfaction. Then he slides off Clint, moving to the side of the bed and grabbing his ankle. “That was a nice trick you pulled with the tracking devices, by the way,” he says, ducking the kick Clint aims at him before securing his foot. “How’d you do it?”

“Fuck off,” Clint says again, kicking him again. He gets his shoulder this time, but then Rumlow’s catching his other foot, tying that one down, and that’s it. He’s trapped, tied down to the bed, rope already chafing at his skin. _Gonna have more scars_ , he thinks, but he can’t stop himself from twisting, from pulling at it.

“We’ll put a pin in that one,” Rumlow says, unconcerned. He steps back, surveying Clint, and his mouth twists in cold satisfaction. “This isn’t about questions, anyway. Not right now.”

“The rape thing’s getting old,” Clint snaps, pulling on his wrists again. “You need a new trick, asshole.”

_Stop talking_ , some part of him screams, but Clint’s too scared, too frustrated, too _everything_ to stop. “I know how this song goes. You think that’s gonna break me? It’ll be just like the other hundred times. It’s _boring_ , Rumlow. Get something new.”

Rumlow laughs. “Oh, sweetheart. Got your fire back, I see.” He slides a hand up Clint’s leg, grinning at the reflexive jerk it gets. “I’m glad. For a while there I thought you’d given up. Thought maybe we burned all the fight out of you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Clint says, his skin crawling as Rumlow keeps touching him.

“You already tried that. Didn’t work.”

“Next time I’ll aim for the head.”

“Mmm. You think there’s gonna be a next time?”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Rumlow comes back around to the nightstand and opens the drawer, pulling out a pair of medical shears, a syringe, and something else Clint doesn’t recognize. Something leather, maybe?

Rumlow picks up the shears first, cutting Clint’s clothes off without any fanfare. Honestly, Clint was surprised he still had them on when waking up, but he suspects this is why. There’s an odd intimacy to the moment, the intense way Rumlow slices them off, tugging them out of the way. Power, too, and Clint can already feel the backslide happening, can already feel himself going still under Rumlow’s touch, weeks and months of training rearing their head.

“Good boy,” Rumlow murmurs. “Holding still for me.”

Clint bristles at the words. “Fuck you,” he growls, and Rumlow chuckles. He pulls Clint’s shirt out of the way, tossing it down to the floor.

“There we go,” he says, setting the shears on the nightstand. Then he starts _touching_ , sliding his hands along every inch of bare skin. It’s almost clinical, the way he traces over bumps and bruises, cataloguing each one. Clint would call it concern if it wasn’t for the possessive look in Rumlow’s eye, like he’s reacquainting himself with Clint’s body. Reclaiming it.

Then he leans over and picks up the syringe, rolling it in his fingers. “You killed Rollins,” he says quietly.

Clint starts to correct him—technically, Bucky threw that knife—but he doesn’t want to remind Rumlow of Bucky’s existence, so he just nods.

“You’re going to regret that.” 

Clint shrugs. “Story of my life,” he murmurs, and tugs on the ropes again. “You want an apology?”

“An apology,” Rumlow says, and now there’s a hint of anger to his words. “You think a little _I’m sorry_ is going to fix things?”

“I don’t want to fix things,” Clint says. “I don’t give a shit about Rollins. Watching him die was one of the top ten moments in my life.”

Rumlow’s face twists with something. Fury, maybe but there’s also a lot of _grief_ , and that’s when Clint remembers all the rumors he’s heard about Rumlow and Rollins over the years, puzzle pieces fitting together into an entirely different picture. Clint’s been around grief enough times to know what it looks like. He’s seen people lose coworkers, lose friends, lose family. This kind of anger, though—that comes from something much more personal. 

Clint studies Rumlow, sees the _pain_ written all over him, and suddenly it all makes sense. 

“You loved him,” he says slowly.

Rumlow lets out a hollow laugh. “I don’t know what love is,” he says, his fingernails digging into Clint’s chest. “I never have.” He looks at Clint, and the grief is gone, replaced with that blankness again. “But he was _something_ , and now he’s dead. And you—you helped.”

“I—” Clint starts, and then his self-preservation finally kicks in, his mouth clamping shut. This isn’t about questions at all, then. This is about revenge. Which means that there isn’t anything Clint can try, or say, or do to help himself. All he can do is get through it, and hope he’s still in one piece at the end.

Rumlow sets the syringe against his arm, pricking the vein without any difficulty. “This is something the labs cooked up,” he says, answering Clint’s unspoken question. “I don’t know everything about it, but I know what it does.”

“What does it do?” Clint asks, watching it empty into his vein.

“You’ll find out,” Rumlow says. “It won’t take long.” He sets the empty syringe down, sweeping his eyes over Clint’s body again. Appraising him, like a painter looking at a blank canvas. It’s unnerving.

“Are you going to kill me?” His voice wavers slightly, and he hates himself for it.

“No,” Rumlow says. “I should. But I’m not going to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.” He reaches out, closes a possessive hand over Clint’s throat, and Clint is not panicking, he’s _not_ panicking. “You know what happened? I let you have too much of a leash. Gave you too much wiggle room, and you got hopeful, made a stupid choice. My fault. I should’ve kept a closer eye on you.”

“You—” Clint says, and the hand tightens in warning. Clint swallows reflexively, hating that Rumlow can feel him do it. His palm is hot against Clint’s skin, like a branding iron. Clint’s half-convinced that it’ll leave a mark there, a handprint on his throat to show the whole world that Rumlow owns him—

_He doesn’t_ , he tries to tell himself, but it’s getting harder to think. There’s a haze in his mind, and his whole body is prickling with sweat, hot and uncomfortable. The ropes, previously just an annoyance, almost feel like they’re burning his wrists, rough hemp against his skin. Even the bedsheets seem rougher, or maybe he’s just more aware of them against his bare skin. He can suddenly feel _everything_ like all of his senses have been dialed up a few notches.

“What,” he says, and his own voice sounds too loud. He winces, shakes his head.

“There we go,” Rumlow says, not moving his hand. “You feeling it now?”

“What is this—” He struggles against the ropes, a soft whimper escaping him as they shift against his skin. It feels like his skin is stripping off underneath them, even though he can _see_ that’s not the case. He looks at Rumlow, winces again as his eyes catch on the light. It’s like a supernova against his retinas, and he has to look away, close his eyes for a moment.

“You feel like you’re on fire,” Rumlow says softly. “Everything’s too hot, too bright, too loud. Right?” When Clint doesn’t answer, Rumlow reaches out and pinches his arm. Clint yells, pain flashing through him. “Answer me.”

“Yes!” Clint pulls on the ropes, blinks tears from his eyes as his nerves scream. “Yes, please—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Rumlow says, and he presses on Clint’s chest, right over the bruise.

Normally, it wouldn’t even register, but with this—whatever it is—it feels like he’s being shot again, the pain of it convalescing in that one single spot. Clint grits his teeth against the scream that threatens to erupt from him and turns his face away from the light searing his eyes. “Please,” he says again, and he hates himself for it, but there’s nothing he can do to keep it from slipping out. “It’s too bright, please—”

“I’ve got a solution for that,” Rumlow says, and he leans over to the nightstand, picking up the third thing. It is leather, Clint realizes, some kind of mask—

“ _No_ ,” he says, and he tries to scramble away, a pained yelp escaping him as the ropes set fire to his skin, and the sheets scrape against him. “No, no, don’t—”

“You don’t get a choice,” Rumlow says, and his voice is like steel. “You don’t get any choices, anymore.” He straddles Clint again, knees on either side of his chest, and holds up the mask. “Hold still.”

Clint shakes his head, panic tearing through him. “Rumlow, please, please don’t do this to me, I’m begging you, _please_ , I’ll tell you what you want to know—”

“I don’t want to know anything right now,” Rumlow says, and he slaps Clint. It’s not as hard as the others were, but in this state, it’s like an explosion in Clint’s mind, like the time he and Barney set off fireworks in one of the trailers at the circus, too loud and too bright and too close. He screams, loud enough to hurt his own ears, and Rumlow takes advantage of his momentary stillness to shove the hood on.

It’s thick leather, covering his entire face. There’s holes for his nose, barely big enough to breath through, and a closed zipper covering his mouth. He can’t see, he can’t even _breathe_ ; he’s going to suffocate in here, going to die—

The zipper opens, and he sucks in a grateful breath, babbling even as he gasps for air. “Take it off, Rumlow, please, I’m sorry, I got stupid—”

“I don’t care,” Rumlow says, his voice muffled. “Beg as pretty as you want, this isn’t coming off until we’re done.”

“I’ll tell you—“

“This isn’t about questions,” Rumlow growls, and his voice is suddenly louder, mouth pressed against the leather by Clint’s ear. “This is about you and me. This is about getting something through your thick skull. You’re not an Avenger, you’re not a SHIELD agent, you’re not even a fucking person. You’re my goddamn dog, and I think it’s time we made that stick.”

Some part of Clint is screaming at him to get it together, to grit his teeth and see this through. He knows, objectively, that he’s fine, that this is just a combination of drugs and childhood fears rearing their head, and that Rumlow’s presence is just amplifying it. He knows, somewhere in himself, that he’s going to get through this and come out the other side.

But right now, that part of him is minuscule, overwritten by sheer terror, a panic that’s settled itself into his very bones. He can’t _see_ , he needs his eyes, he’s a sniper, he has to be able to see what’s coming, has to be able to see it, hear it, guard against it—

There’s a low chuckle, barely audible. “You really don’t like this,” Rumlow says, and Clint’s breath catches in a sob as he shakes his head. “Good. You won’t like what’s coming next, either.”

A line of fire traces up his chest, right over his sternum, and Clint screams, yanking against the ropes as his body convulses. Rumlow shoves him back down, then zips the hood shut again. It happens again, a single thin line of flames licking up his skin. Clint doesn’t know if it’s a knife, or something else, or even just Rumlow’s finger—in this strung-out state, it all feels the same.

He can’t even focus on anything else, can’t pick a point and zone out because he can’t see. There’s nothing around him but an oppressive darkness, smothering and close and horrible. He shakes his head again, desperately trying to dislodge the hood. It would be fine, he could get through it if he could just _see_.

Rumlow keeps going, sharp, short movements that make Clint gasp every time. He varies the length, the placement, the timing. He does a few in a row, then pauses, one hand settled on over Clint’s thundering heart. Clint can imagine the satisfaction on his face as he feels it racing under his fingers. Not that Clint’s even making a token effort to be stoic, at this point. He’s so far gone in panic that he feels nauseated, and he has to keep swallowing, force the bile back down his throat until it burns.

“Please,” he says against the hood, the metallic taste of the zipper exploding in his mouth. “Rumlow, please—”

The zipper opens, and Clint breathes deep enough to feel his entire chest expand. “Please,” he says again, almost immediately. “Take it off, take it _off_ —”

“Why would I do that?” Rumlow asks, and he sounds so delighted, like watching Clint go to pieces under him is everything he’s ever wanted. “You think you deserve it? You think you’ve earned it?”

Clint sobs again, because he knows the answer to that is no. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying to find the right combination of words that’ll get him out of this. “I won’t do it again—”

“No, you fucking won’t,” Rumlow says, his voice suddenly cold with fury, and something _cracks_ across Clint’s chest, a pain so intense that Clint chokes on his own scream, making a whimpering noise instead as he tries to scramble away from it.

_Belt_ , his mind supplies, belatedly recognizing the feel and shape, but it feels like a car battery, like a jolt of electricity wired directly to his nerves. It’s worse, actually—Clint’s _been_ electrocuted before, that was a walk in the park compared to this, compared to the _agony_ that’s blaring through him. There’s too many signals to sort through, too much pain, too much fear, all of it just ripping through him, splitting him open, laying him bare for Rumlow to see.

“Stop—” he begs, and the zipper closes again. There’s another crack, on his thigh this time, dangerously close to his dick. It rips another scream out of him, so loud his throat feels like it’s shredding under the force of it as Rumlow does it again and again and again and—

“You wanted this,” Rumlow snarls in his ear, and his fingers curl into the cuff on Clint’s left wrist, shaking it hard. “You wanted me to find you, put you in your place. Lucky for you a friend of mine saw these, figured out who you were. Can hide your face, but not these.”

Clint tries to think through the mess of signals in his head. _The elevator. The guy saw them—_

“I didn’t,” he says, muffled, and shakes his head. _Didn’t want this, not you, please stop, please please please—_

“I’m just giving you what you wanted,” Rumlow says, and he starts with the belt again, lighting strikes against his skin, the pain and intensity growing. Clint can’t get into a headspace for them, can’t do anything except lay here and scream, writhing as he tries to pull away, but he’s got nowhere to _go_. There’s just darkness, oppressive and smothering, choking him on his own breath and his own screams and—

Rumlow stops. Gentle fingers drag along the lash marks, and even that barest of touches feels like fire on his skin. He wonders if he _is_ on fire, he’s so hot and everything hurts, feels like he’s been flayed alive.

“Breathe,” Rumlow says, and the zipper opens, allowing him to suck in air. “We’re almost done.”

The sensation of fingers sliding into him should be routine, at this point, but he’s so strung out and raw that it makes him jerk and whimper, trying to get away again. “No,” he says, then whimpers, because he remembers an arm against his throat, pressed up against a wall, and Rumlow’s furious words. _You don’t get to say no._

“I don’t want it,” he sobs, fingers flexing in the ropes. He’s bleeding, he can feel it dripping down his arm, hot like lava, burning him as it goes.

“I don’t care,” Rumlow says, and then he’s pushing in. Clint’s not ready for it, and it _hurts_ , intimate and violating in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. Not with him.

The zipper stays open, at least, and Clint sucks in grateful gasps of air as fire licks up his spine with every thrust, oversensitive to the max. He doesn’t know how much more he can take of this, he doesn’t know why he hasn’t passed out already. He’d rather be unconscious for this part—he _knows_ Rumlow owns him, he doesn’t need the reminder—

“Yeah, you do,” Rumlow grunts, and Clint realizes he’s saying all that out loud, babbling and frantic. “That’s okay. I’ll help you.”

_I don’t want your help. I want—_

Christ. He wants Bucky. He wants Bucky more than he’s ever wanted anyone else in his entire life. He just wants to crawl into his arms, curl up with him like they did in the motel. He felt _safe_ , then, felt protected, and he wants that again, wants it so badly his whole body aches with it.

Although that might also be from the way Rumlow’s fucking into him. He’s not even trying to make it good for Clint, which Clint’s perversely grateful for. He’s already at his limit, sensation-wise. Over it, really. He’s so painfully aware of every point of contact between them, every motion of Rumlow inside him. The nausea is still there, and his throat is burning with it, burning like the rest of him.

He must pass out, or zone out for a while, because the next thing he knows, there’s a searing pain in his arm, like a supernova in his skin, a star bursting and dying. His scream is hoarse and ragged, and he jolts back into awareness, entire body shaking with it.

“Still awake?” Rumlow asks, and Clint realizes he’s pressing on the bullet wound in his arm. He can feel the blood welling up, sluggish and slow around the stitches. “We’re not done yet.”

Clint shudders. “Awake,” he mumbles. “‘M listening, promise.”

The drug must be wearing off, he thinks. Everything is still awful, senses still ratcheted up to eleven, but there’s a sense of numbness seeping through him now. Either it’s wearing off, or his brain literally can’t handle anymore. Both options are likely.

“I could leave you here,” Rumlow murmurs, mouth right over Clint’s ear. “I could lock you somewhere dark, take you out sometimes to play. I could put you in the basement like this, let everyone have a turn with you. You didn’t like it when you _could_ fight, how do you think you’ll like it when you’re tied up and helpless?”

Clint shudders again. “Please,” he whispers, exhausted and worn. “Please don’t.”

“I could cut your eyes out,” Rumlow continues. “Make you blind forever. Or take an arm, make you match your boyfriend. I could kill you and dump your body in a river, then go after everyone you care about. Romanoff. The Asset. All your leftover SHIELD friends.” His hand slides around Clint’s neck again, squeezing. “You see what I’m getting at, sweetheart?”

Clint nods. God, he’s shaking so hard. His whole body is in overload, and he just wants it to stop. Wants everything to stop. Wants to curl up and sleep forever, why did they come back here, why did they risk it—

“Tell me, then,” Rumlow says, thumb rubbing over Clint’s pulse.

“I’m yours.” It comes out as a cracked whisper. “I’m—I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” comes the soothing reply, and then there’s fingers sliding along the edge of his face, tugging the leather up and off. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

He forces his eyes open, stares up at Rumlow. The lights are less bright now, although it’s still enough to make his eyes water. He blinks the tears away, looks up at Rumlow, and says it again. “I’m yours.”

“Yeah, you are,” Rumlow says, and he wipes the tear tracks off Clint’s face.

Then his hand slides lower, palming over Clint’s abs, the sensation of it still too much—

“No,” Clint chokes out, closing his eyes again. “No more, please—”

“You don’t get to say no to me,” Rumlow reminds him.

This isn’t gentle either—or maybe it is, but Clint’s oversensitive nerves can’t tell the difference. Even a feather light touch would be too much, the fucking _air_ is too much, he can’t take it, he doesn’t _want it._

It takes a long time. Longer than normal. Rumlow just keeps murmuring things into his ear, soft and soothing even as he tortures Clint, draws out sobs and gasps and bitten-off pleas with every twist of his wrist. It’s not even a relief to come, just a blessed sensation of being _done_.

Except they’re not done. Rumlow keeps going, even as Clint starts screaming again, everything in him just begging for Rumlow to _stop stop stop oh god please stop—_

He passes out at some point. He must, because he goes from brightness to darkness, agony to nothing, in the blink of an eye. One moment Rumlow’s got a hand around him, murmuring in his ear while he screams and pulls on the restraints, and the next second he’s limp, untied and covered in a blanket.

“Bucky,” he mumbles, confused for a moment until memory comes crashing back in with a vengeance, and he realizes where he is.

Clint forces his eyes open. He’s still in Rumlow’s room, still on the bed. He tries moving, gives it up after a second when just twitching his finger sends a wave of agony through him.

“You’re gonna be feeling it for a while,” says a familiar voice, and Clint slides his gaze over to Rumlow, who’s leaning against the windows. It’s nighttime now, the moon providing the only source of light in the room. “You lasted longer than I thought you would, honestly.” He comes closer, picks up the half-finished water bottle on the nightstand. “Sit up.”

Clint tries. He really does. But he’s too tired, nerves still sensitive and on edge, and he only makes it a few inches off the mattress before collapsing back down. “Sorry,” he says, although it comes out as more of a broken whimper.

Rumlow pulls him upright, giving him slow sips of water. He’s gentle again, apparently sated for the moment, and Clint is too tired and too shattered to consider fighting him. “There you go. That better?”

Clint nods, and Rumlow pats him on the head before moving over to the dresser. He pulls out some clothes, tosses them on the bed. “Good. Get dressed. Get up.”

It takes everything Clint has to make himself move. It’s just sweatpants and a t-shirt, but they feel like sandpaper against his skin, and he grits his teeth as he forces himself to pull the shirt on, covering the few haphazardly placed bandages on his chest.

It catches on something around his neck, and he tugs it free, then pats around. “What—”

“Leave it alone,” Rumlow says from the other side of the room.

Clint ignores him, sliding his fingers underneath it. It’s canvas, rough against his skin, already irritating him. “What is this?”

“What do you think it is?”

“I’m not wearing—” he breaks off in a coughing fit, voice still fucked to hell “—a goddamn collar.”

“You’ll wear what I tell you to wear,” Rumlow says. “You try and take it off, I’m gonna break your damn hands. Leave it _alone_ and do what I told you to do.”

Clint pulls the pants on, then gets upright, holding onto the bedpost for support. There’s more bandages around his wrists, and some around his ankles, too. He pokes at one aimlessly, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he remembers _begging_ , asking Rumlow to stop—

His face flushes with shame, and he stares at a spot on the floor. He must look fucking pathetic right now, barefoot and beaten, with a collar around his neck.

_You’re not an Avenger, you’re not a SHIELD agent, you’re not even a fucking person. You’re my goddamn dog, and I think it’s time we made that stick._

His fingers curl on the bedpost, and he swallows hard, forcing his face back into a more stoic expression. He can do this. He can get through this. He played the game for months already, what’s another couple of days? The helicarriers will fail, Hydra will be in chaos, and he can make his escape then. This is just a setback. In a couple of days, he’ll be out of here, back to Bucky and Nat—

Clint glances at Rumlow, who’s in the middle of doing something on his phone. He wants to ask if he was the only one they found on the helicarriers, but if they don’t know he wasn’t working alone, he’s not going to bring it up.

“Alright,” Rumlow says, and shoves his phone in his pocket. “We’re going to visit Sitwell. Come here.”

Clint slowly walks over to him, testing his balance with each step. He stops a short distance away, making himself meet Rumlow’s eyes. Rumlow is smirking, looking overly pleased with himself. “How you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Fine,” Clint rasps, and looks away again, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“You don’t look fine,” Rumlow says, and there’s a grin in his voice.

Clint doesn’t answer. He’s already raw, the last thing he needs is to give Rumlow more things to sink his claws into. After a moment, Rumlow chuckles, then puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Strong and silent, huh? That’s okay. You can play pretend for now.”

_Get your fucking hand off me,_ Clint wants to scream, but he doesn’t. He just keeps staring at the floor, desperately wishing he could sink through it. Drop right out of this place, go find Bucky, try and erase the memory of Rumlow cracking him open with nothing more than a syringe and a blindfold and his belt—

Rumlow pulls a thin strip of something out of his pocket, attaching it to the collar around Clint’s neck. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging on it.

“You fucking kidding me?” Clint grabs at it. “I’m not—”

“We had a discussion about what you are,” Rumlow says, tugging at the leash. “And I’m not in the mood to argue with you right now. We have things we need to be doing.” He steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “I’m just as happy to take you in blindfolded, sweetheart. That what you want?”

Clint immediately lets go of the leash. “No,” he says, voice cracking. “No.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go.”

Clint stumbles after him, still uncoordinated. “Shoes,” he says, as Rumlow hits the elevator button. “I don’t have—”

“Better watch your step, then,” Rumlow says, and pulls him into the elevator.

“You can’t even—” Clint stops, because there’s really no point. He’s not going to win. He just needs to get through it. He can do that. Just a few more days, and then it’ll be over, there’ll be enough chaos for him to slip away, get back to the others.

He keeps telling himself that, all the way to the Triskelion. It’s nighttime, so there’s at least fewer people around to see them come in, but there’s still enough eyes on him that Clint’s face is burning with shame by the time they get up to Sitwell’s office.

“Holy shit,” Sitwell says as they come in. “You actually got him.”

“Told you I would,” Rumlow says, and he pushes on Clint’s shoulder. Clint closes his eyes for a moment, then obeys the unspoken command, sinking down to his knees. Rumlow tugs on the leash a little bit, pulling him closer. “We’ve got some things to work out still, but we’ve made a good start so far, haven’t we, Barton?”

Clint nods, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Yeah,” he mutters, staring down at the floor.

“I’m impressed,” Sitwell admits. “I didn’t think you could do it—”

“Later,” Rumlow says. He pulls the leash again, making Clint shuffle on his knees to follow him as he goes closer to the desk. “Eyes up, Barton.”

Clint looks up. Rumlow’s holding a tablet in front of him, and he takes it with shaking hands. It’s security footage, showing the helicarrier. Specifically, showing the targeting system.

Even more specifically, showing _Clint_ —still in his disguise—swapping out the cards, then walking away, tucking the real one into his belt.

_Shit_ , Clint thinks, and his heart sinks. _Shit. They know._

“Wanna tell us what you were doing there, sweetheart?” Rumlow asks, taking the tablet back.

“Maintenance,” Clint says, trying to keep the front up anyway. “Someone’s gotta keep Hydra running properly.”

“Uh-huh.” Rumlow taps a few things on the screen. “Looks more to me like you were trying to mess with our targeting systems.”

Clint shrugs. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Rumlow winds a hand into his hair, pulls his head back sharply. “Funny thing is, while you were doing that, the same thing was happening on the other two helicarriers.” He raises his eyebrows. “What do you know about that?”

“Not a damn thing,” Clint says.

“Uh-huh. And how’d you know about the helicarriers at all?”

Clint grits his teeth, keeping his mouth shut. He’s not going to give up Nat and Bucky. Not going to give up SHIELD, either. Rumlow can torture him all he wants, but he’s not going to—

“Alright,” Rumlow sighs, letting go of his head. “Gonna play stubborn with me?”

_It’s just a few days, it’s just a few days, it’s just a few—_

“We’ve got the techs working on it, in any case,” Sitwell says. “Shouldn’t be too much longer before they fix it.”

Rumlow looks down at Clint. “All that work for nothing,” he says softly. “And you still ended up back here.”

“Always a way out,” Clint says, fingers clenching against his sides. _Maybe there’s still a chance. Tony programmed them, he’s probably got backups on backups, you just have to keep your mouth shut for a few days, give things time to work, let Nat and Bucky find you somehow—_

“Not this time,” Rumlow murmurs, gently petting through his hair. “So. You gonna tell us what we want to know? Do this the easy way?” 

Clint flashes a bitter smile. “When have I ever made things easy?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Rumlow says, anticipation written all over him, and his fingers slowly tighten in Clint’s hair again. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to CruciatusForeplay for the “It’s not nice when someone shoots you in the chest, is it?” line, much appreciated
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely and marvelous [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Darlin, I dunno what I'd do without you.
> 
>  **LIFE UPDATE NOTES** : Due to some personal circumstances (all good, I promise) I'm going to have to shift my update schedule to Sundays. I will, as always, do my best to maintain it, but obviously life and stuff happens. Just wanted to let you all know that, and I will see you (next) Sunday!


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint watches the number on the screen tick up, feeling more nauseated with every single flash. It’s the longest three minutes of his life, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it—
> 
> “Brave new world,” Rumlow says. “You ready?”
> 
> Clint stares at him, gritting his teeth. There’s ten seconds, nine, eight—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO Y'ALL REMEMBER HARISHE
> 
> [They did art for me again and it. Is. G L O R I O U S](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678105/chapters/65098558%22)

This is the world Clint dreams about:

Bucky smiles at him from across the Quinjet. They infiltrate the helicarriers, plant the new targeting systems, and get out. They make it back to the truck, which takes them back to the Quinjet, and they fly out of there. They go back to the Adirondacks, tell SHIELD about their success, and wait. More agents come, and under Fury’s instruction, they pull themselves into a little team. They not much, but they’re _enough_ , and that’s what matters.

The helicarriers launch. There’s a hair-raising moment where Clint thinks maybe it didn’t work, maybe they failed, maybe Hydra knows—

But then there’s a series of explosions, and smoke in the sky, and rubble falling into the river. The helicarriers seem to drift down in slow motion, hanging in the sky for long seconds before tumbling down and crashing into the water.

“That’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Clint says, and Bucky nods, eyes fixed on the fire and smoke coming from the river. “Alright, then. Let’s go take out the rest.”

They’re not much, but they’re enough. Hydra is in an uproar from the helicarrier crash. The team manages to slip in amongst the chaos, prowling the red-lit halls of their own home, guns up and eyes on alert. Clint goes right for the main computer hub, kicks down the door with a _bang_ and a “Surprise, motherfuckers.”

He clears the room with Bucky at his side, and then they turn Hydra’s world inside out, opening up the systems and allowing Stark in to wreak even more havoc.

“Now what?” Bucky asks, watching the screens go haywire.

“Now we find Rumlow,” Clint says.

It doesn’t take them long. Clint can almost feel a magnet pulling them together, like there’s a tangible bond connecting them. It makes him sick to think about.

They find him in the basement, not too far from where he used to keep Clint, and that alone is enough to make his skin crawl. Rumlow grins when he sees them, the red emergency lights reflecting off his teeth. “Hey sweetheart.”

“It’s over, Rumlow,” Clint says. “You’re done. Hydra’s losing.”

“Oh, little puppy,” Rumlow says, sugar sweet. “You’re still fighting, huh?”

“Yeah.” Clint raises his bow. “I am.”

They kill him. They kill him together, and it’s bloody, and it’s brutal. Clint empties an entire clip into his body, firing until the gun clicks in his hands. Then he nocks another arrow, because he has to know, he needs to be _sure_ —

“Clint,” Bucky says, a hand on his shoulder. “It’s over.”

“I just have to make sure—”

“He’s dead,” Bucky says softly, and he tugs the bow from Clint’s hand, setting it on the ground before wrapping Clint in a hug.

Clint cries then, safe in his arms, cries until he’s shaking with it, cries until he feels wrung out and exhausted. The world is falling down around them, but right now the only thing he knows is the feel of Bucky’s arms and a strong sense of _relief_. It’s over. No matter what else happens, no matter what else comes their way—this, at least, is over.

They make their way back upstairs. There’s more carnage. More deaths. More bodies to step over. Some of them Clint recognizes, some of them he doesn’t. They all break his heart anyway.

_It didn’t have to be like this,_ he thinks, looking down at them. _We were a family once._

When the dust settles, Clint finds Natasha holding Pierce at gunpoint, in a room with Fury, Hill, and half a dozen other trustworthy agents. She meets his eyes as he comes in, and he nods, confirming her silent question.

Pierce is making some speech about building better worlds, and tearing the old ones down, going on until someone drags him out of the room. A silence falls among the group, equal parts relieved and unsure.

Clint is the first to break it. “Now what?”

“Now we rebuild,” Fury says, looking around at everyone. “We rebuild, and we do it right this time.”

“There’s more cells,” says another agent. “I have their locations. Names of agents. They’ll be scattered. If we’re going to hit Hydra for good, this is the time. We’ll never have a better shot.”

Clint looks at Bucky. “Brick by brick,” he murmurs, and Bucky nods. On his other side, Nat nods too, and he feels her hand wind into his for a brief moment.

“We’ll go,” she says to Fury. “Just tell us where.”

And so they go.

It takes them a long time. Months, really. Nat is with them some times, and away for others, but Bucky is always by his side. He has his own problems, Clint learns, his own nightmares and triggers, but they figure it out together. Always, always together. And then one day there’s no more fights to fight, and no more things to destroy. Clint sips a beer on the bed in their shitty motel room, and looks at Bucky. “Now what?”

Bucky turns his own beer over in his hands, the lights reflecting off the metal of his left one. “I think I love you,” he says. “That okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Think I love you too.”

This is a world where they make it, where they get out safe, and have lives of their own. It is the world he wants, and he wants it _so badly_.

But if life has taught Clint anything, it’s that what he wants does not matter at all.

And so this—

This is the world he gets:

“Wake up, sweetheart.”

Clint jerks awake. He forgets where he is for a moment, can still feel the phantom chill of a bottle in his hand, can hear Bucky’s quiet words echoing in his ears. A subtle sense of safety, like a blanket wrapped around him.

_Not safe here,_ he reminds himself, eyes flicking up to gauge Rumlow’s mood. It’s been three days since they caught him again, and Clint’s both surprised and not to see how quickly they’ve fallen back into their old routine. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been walking on eggshells around Rumlow. It had just become...normal. Part of the routine. Constantly checking moods, watching his words, anticipating cruelty.

God, that should be the name of his autobiography. He feels like he’s spent most of his life anticipating cruelty.

“Awake,” he mumbles, tucking his broken left hand against his chest. There’s splints on it now, which is an improvement over the last day. But it’s still throbbing with pain, a bright spot against the general dull ache of his body, and he hates it.

He can still feel it, too, the snap of each individual finger. They’d shot him up with that stuff and blindfolded him again—a regular one, at least, he’d nearly said _thank you_ —before asking him questions. When he didn’t answer, they’d started in on his hand. Clint’s had his fingers broken before—once on accident, once from torture—but the drug had made it a thousand times worse. He felt like they were splintering, each shattering into a million tiny pieces.

He hadn’t said anything, though. Not a damn word. He’s pretty sure they don’t know about Natasha or Bucky, which is good. He doesn’t remember what they asked him, exactly, just that they’d assumed he’d been the one to do all of the infiltrating. He hadn’t lied, he just...didn’t correct them.

“Look at me,” Rumlow says, and Clint glances up at him. “Let me see the hand.”

Clint reluctantly extends it, gritting his teeth as Rumlow trails his fingers over the splints. Honestly, he’d been too busy screaming to answer questions, anyway. An interrogation oversight on their part. They should’ve broken them first, _then_ shot him up. Then he would’ve been able to talk to them in the beginning.

An absurd urge to laugh bubbles up in his chest, and he clamps down on it. _Don’t give them ideas, you moron._

“That hurt?” Rumlow asks.

“Yeah,” Clint mutters, trying to sound neutral. He slides his hand out of Rumlow’s grip, tucking it against his chest again.

His stomach feels like a gaping wound, open and empty. He’s so fucking hungry; he hasn’t eaten anything decent since the McDonald’s a few days ago. Rumlow’s been giving him water, but not enough, and Clint is almost desperate enough to beg for it.

“Get up,” Rumlow says, and Clint slowly gets to his feet. They’re in the Triskelion basement; Rumlow had marched him down here after Sitwell’s office, and he hasn’t left since. He still has that fucking collar on too, and he can already feel how irritated his skin is underneath it.

“Where are we going?” he asks Rumlow as the leash is clipped on. His voice is screwed to hell from the screaming, and the...other things. He supposes he should be used to getting his throat fucked by now, but oxygen deprivation is ten times worse on that goddamn drug.

He briefly entertains a fantasy of slipping a needle into Rumlow’s vein before carving him into pieces with a dull knife, but then he shoves it aside. Not the time. He needs to stay present and aware.

Rumlow laughs, which means he’s in a good mood today. Which is...probably bad. Clint can think of a number of reasons for Rumlow to be happy, and none of them are good. “You’ll find out, puppy. Come on.”

Clint slowly stumbles after him, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He pauses at the cell door, clutching at it until Rumlow yanks on the leash. “We’re on my time, Barton. Get moving.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says immediately, letting go. He overbalances a little, crashes into the opposite door. “I need—”

He cuts himself off, but it’s too late. Rumlow’s rounding on him with a smile that promises nothing good. “You need what?”

Clint cringes a little, keeping his mouth shut. Rumlow had punched him in the face last time he asked for water. Clint only barely managed to save himself from a broken nose. “Nothing,” he mutters, but then his traitorous stomach rumbles, and Rumlow laughs again.

“Hungry, huh? Come on,” he says, tugging the leash. “We can fix that. We got a few minutes before the good stuff happens.”

Clint winces again, but he follows—not like he can do anything else—as Rumlow leads him to the elevator. His foot hurts, he’s pretty sure one of his toes is broken. He’s also freezing—Rumlow let him keep pants, but he doesn’t have anything else, and the basement is absolutely frigid.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface of the doors. It’s pathetic, really. He’s hunched over, visibly trying to make himself smaller behind Rumlow. He’s got bruises on top of bruises, his ribs are _definitely_ broken, and he’s covered in dried blood and bandages.

Basically, he looks like shit.

He drops his gaze down to the floor, and a moment later the doors open. Rumlow tugs him in, telling the elevator to take them to the thirtieth floor. “We’ll get you something to eat,” he says, all saccharine sweet. “Then we’ve got a show to watch.”

Clint nods tiredly, trying to support himself on the wall without being too obvious. “What show?” he rasps, swiping his tongue over his cracked and bleeding lips.

“You’ll find out,” Rumlow says, which is pretty much the answer Clint had expected. Although if he hadn’t asked, Rumlow would have spent the next hour egging him into it anyway.

He’s pretty sure he knows what it is. Today’s the day Insight launches.

Rumlow takes him into the main computer room, where they’d been searching for Bruce not too long ago. Now all the screens are taken up with helicarrier information, various stats and other things flicking across the screen. Clint glances up at the target count, wincing at the six numbers that are still ticking up.

_So much for messing with the targeting system_ , he thinks, and tries not to let his despair show on his face. He needs to keep himself together. This isn’t over for him. Not yet.

Rumlow checks on a few things, then motions one of the techs over. “Go get some food,” he says. “Sandwich or something. I don’t care. Something easy to eat. Bring it back here.”

Clint feels a swell of gratitude and immediately squashes it. He doesn’t have a goddamn thing to be grateful for; it’s _Rumlow’s_ fault he’s starving in the first place.

Rumlow snaps his fingers, and Clint drops to the floor, wincing as his knees crack. He keeps his hand tucked into his chest, curling his other one over it protectively. Rumlow tugs him to lean against his thigh, and he does, not bothering to resist.

“Only a little bit longer,” Rumlow says, gently curling fingers through his hair. “Then we can get back to what we were doing. Got some more questions for you. But I thought you’d want to see this.”

“See what?”

“This.” Rumlow gestures around. “The fall of your world. We’re tearing it down. Rebuilding.”

“You’re killing people,” Clint says. “Innocent people. They don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe not,” Rumlow says. “But order only comes through pain, Barton. You know that. We all have to make sacrifices.”

“You’re justifying mass murder.” Clint pulls away from him. He doesn’t get far before the leash tightens, but he gets far enough that Rumlow’s not touching him anymore. “You—none of these people have done a damn thing to Hydra—”

“Not yet. But they will. That’s the whole point of the algorithm.”

Clint doesn’t know what the algorithm is, but then someone distracts Rumlow with something, and he decides it’s better not to ask anyway. He studies the people instead, what they’re doing, wondering if there’s any way he can fuck it up, any way he can cause trouble—

“About damn time,” Rumlow says, and he reaches forward, taking a paper plate from the tech in one hand. He drags a chair over and sits in it, leaning back with a satisfied look on his face as he examines the room. “Gonna be a good fucking day.”

Clint doesn’t answer, engrossed as he is in trying to find weak spots in what they’re doing. He doesn’t look up until Rumlow yanks on the leash, pulling him off balance enough that he actually falls over with a choked sound. He ends up leaning on Rumlow’s leg, and when he tries to move away, Rumlow makes a sharp noise. Clint settles for getting more upright and glaring at him instead.

“Cute,” Rumlow tells him, and offers him a slice of strawberry.

Clint stares at it for a moment, then back at him. “Is this a joke?”

“You’re not hungry, then?” Rumlow pops it in his own mouth. “Alright. That’s fine.”

“I’m—” Clint grits his teeth. “Rumlow—”

“I’m being very nice to you today,” he says, offering another one. “I suggest you remember that.”

“Fine,” Clint mutters, and reaches for it.

Rumlow pulls it back. “Nope. No hands.”

The words are disorienting. Casually uttered, like Rumlow’s telling him to move closer, or pick something up, or answer a question. Like it’s a basic, easy command, instead of something humiliating as hell.

Clint looks around the room. No one is really paying attention to them, but there’s still an occasional, amused glance sent his way. Still, there’s a knot of shame in his chest, and his face is flushing red. It’s almost surprising that even after all this time, Rumlow can still find new ways to make him feel like less of a person.

_You’re my goddamn dog, and it’s time we made that stick._

Honestly, at this point, Clint almost believes him.

“This is the only way you’re getting food,” Rumlow says, holding out the strawberry. “You wanna eat or not?”

For a moment, he almost says no. Just to be spiteful. Just to pretend, even for half a second, that he has some kind of autonomy over this whole situation. The word is on his lips, tasting like freedom, like somebody that he used to be—

“Why?” he asks instead, looking up at Rumlow. “You don’t have to—”

He breaks off, unable to finish the sentence. _You don’t have to rub it in. You don’t have to micromanage me. You don’t have to constantly break me, because I’m already shattered._

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” Rumlow murmurs, gently cupping his cheek. “But you look so damn pretty when you’re broken.”

Clint closes his eyes, feeling the sting of tears. He takes a moment to gather himself, to try and fit his fracturing soul back together. To try and pretend he’s worth something, even in his own head.

Then he leans forward and takes it in his teeth. It’s juicy and fresh, but it tastes like ashes in his mouth, like defeat, like rock fucking bottom. The pleased noise that Rumlow makes only drives the point further home. “Good boy,” he croons, and despite his best efforts, Clint feels a tear slip down his cheek anyway.

He zones out a bit after that. Rumlow feeds him bite by bite, and Clint eats mechanically. He doesn’t taste a single mouthful.

It doesn’t take much for him to be done, at least, and he turns his head to the side when Rumlow offers him another bite. “No.”

Rumlow sets the plate to the side. “Wasn’t so hard,” he says, and Clint stares down at the floor, trying to think about something else. Anything else.

There’s a commotion at the door, then, and Clint looks up to see Tony being hauled into the room. He looks almost as bad as Clint does—unkempt and wild-eyed, bruised and battered. They shove him through the door, making him stumble into a desk.

“Stark!” Rumlow says, sounding delighted. “Come on over here. Got a friend for you.”

Tony’s eyes land on Clint, widening slightly. He limps over, left foot dragging, and kneels down to Clint’s level. “Jesus, man. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Clint rasps. “Good to see you.”

There’s a lot more he wants to say, but he doesn’t dare in front of Rumlow. So he just settles for a crooked smile and covering Tony’s hand with his.

“I see your megalomania isn’t any better,” Tony says, skimming a finger over the collar. “Not content with just the kinky kneeling, huh?”

“He likes to get into trouble,” Rumlow says. “I’m just keeping him close.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Tony skims over Clint’s various injuries with light fingers, looking more and more distressed. “Beating him to a pulp was part of that?”

“I gave him a choice to behave for me.”

Clint grabs Tony’s arm, squeezing hard. “Don’t,” he mutters, cutting off Tony’s indignant response. “It’s not worth it, I promise.”

“Clint—”

“ _Don’t_.” Clint grips his arm tighter. “Are you okay? And Pepper?”

“We’re fine. We’re alive.”

“This is cute,” Rumlow says, “but we’ve got some things to do.” He stands up. “Come on, puppy. Up.”

Tony helps Clint to his feet, steadying him. “Why don’t you let me hang onto him?” He holds out a hand for the leash. “We’ll just huddle here in the back—”

“No, I want him to have a front row seat.” Rumlow grabs Clint’s arm, dragging him forward. “I want you to sit here and watch, and then when we’re done here, I’ve got some more questions for you. Understand?”

“I’m not telling you shit,” Clint mutters, but Rumlow’s not listening. He’s talking with another agent, leash loose in his hand. Clint debates grabbing it for a second before deciding it’s not worth it. He turns slightly, trying to make eye contact with Tony. Even if they can’t talk, it’s just nice knowing that there’s a friend in the room, someone he can trust—

“Move,” one of the agents says, and shoves Tony. “We need you over here.”

He shoves him again, and this time Tony trips, stumbling forward and into Clint. It hurts like a _bitch_ —between the ribs and the broken hand, Clint is a shattered fucking mess—but he manages to awkwardly catch him anyway. “You okay?”

“Be ready,” Tony breathes in his ear, a second before they’re pulled apart by agents. Rumlow yanks Clint backwards, hand winding into the leash until the collar is pulled tight against his neck.

“I didn’t—” Clint grabs at the collar with his good hand. “It was an accident, I didn’t—”

“Just keeping you close,” Rumlow says innocently, patting his head. “Don’t want you getting more hurt.”

“Until you have a chance to hurt me, you mean,” Clint says, and Rumlow flashes a dark grin before turning his attention back to the screens. Clint looks too, mind still reeling from Tony’s words.

_Be ready._

Be ready for _what?_

“T-minus three minutes,” says a tech. “Carriers are finding targets now.”

Clint watches the number on the screen tick up, feeling more nauseated with every single flash. It’s the longest three minutes of his life, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it—

“Brave new world,” Rumlow says. “You ready?”

Clint stares at him, gritting his teeth. There’s ten seconds, nine, eight—

A massive explosion suddenly shakes the building, sending everyone stumbling. Clint grabs the desk with his good hand, steadying himself on it. His eyes go across the room, locking onto Tony’s. As soon as they make eye contact, Tony attacks the guard holding him, nailing a solid one-two punch that sends him reeling.

Then there’s another explosion, bigger than the first. Dust falls from the ceiling, and the lights flicker. A second later, a window on the far side of the room shatters, showering the floor with glass. Tony throws out a hand, and something flies to it, something red and gold and glowing—

“Down!” Tony yells, and Clint drops to the floor, fumbling at the leash as he goes. He manages to get it unhooked just as the gauntlet fires. There’s a grunt of pain from Rumlow, but Clint doesn’t turn to look. He scrambles backwards, moving towards Tony through the general commotion of people.

“I got you,” Tony grunts as more pieces of armor fly through the window and attach themselves to him. A blue shield expands in front of them, sparking as bullets bounce off it. “Get behind me.”

“What are we doing?” Clint hisses at him.

“Something stupid,” Tony says. “I’m sorry.”

Clint starts to ask what, but then armored arms are wrapping around him, jarring every broken bone in his body. “Fucking—”

“Hang on,” Tony says, and he lifts Clint off the ground, flying him towards the broken window.

“Tony!” Clint yells, his voice high-pitched with fear.

“Hang _on_!” Tony yells back, and Clint wraps his good arm around the armor, wincing as his ribs scream in pain. They burst through what’s left of the window, shattering the rest of the glass.

There’s a moment there, when the sunlight washes over them and the breeze fills his hair, that he thinks they might make it. That this plan—whatever the fuck it is—might actually work.

Then Tony lurches, his arms suddenly loosening around Clint. “No—shit—”

Clint echoes him, tightening his own grip. “Don’t drop me—”

“Not trying to,” Tony says. “They shot out my—”

But Clint doesn’t get to hear the rest of it. Tony lurches again, awkwardly spinning in a circle. The motion is enough to dislodge Clint’s own grip on him, his broken ribs too painful to keep holding on. For a long, endless second, he can feel his hands sliding off, see his own terrified expression reflected back in the polished metal.

And then he falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, gonna take me a bit to get used to Sundays.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah. And there’s a few others here you might recognize—”
> 
> Someone yells his name, then. Loud, equal parts worried and relieved, and then Clint picks his head up enough to see a familiar figure sprinting down the steps towards him.
> 
> Bucky.

There’s a certain peace to falling.

Sure, there’s also the screaming, flailing, gut-wrenching terror—but there’s a sense of calmness in the back of his mind. A little voice that says _well, you did everything you could, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it, so you might as well just relax and let it happen._

“Fuck you,” he says to it, the words lost to the rushing wind.

Then something slams into him, and his vision blacks out for a moment. Clint’s got a high tolerance for pain, drugs notwithstanding, but there’s _nothing_ comfortable about broken ribs being jostled, and he very nearly throws up—which would _suck_ at this point.

“I’m sorry,” says another voice. “Shit, I’m sorry, just hold on.”

Clint couldn’t answer even if he wanted to, so he just focuses on trying to breathe. Whoever’s got him—it’s not Tony, that’s all he knows—is gentle, trying not to crush him. He tries to pay attention, tries to calculate where the hell they’re going, but he’s in so much _pain_ that nothing really registers in his brain long enough to make an impression. 

It’s not a long flight, at least, and he’s overly glad when they land somewhere and there’s firm ground beneath his feet again. He dimly registers a large house, modern-looking, nice. It tickles the back of his memory, takes him a second to put it together. _One of Tony’s safe houses_.

“Tony?” he gasps to confirm, curling up into a ball.

“Yeah,” says his rescuer. A black man kneels in front of him, pulling off a pair of odd-looking red goggles. He’s got what looks like a metal backpack over his shoulders, and a concerned expression on his face. “Yeah, it’s Tony’s place. You’re Clint Barton, right?” Clint nods. “I’m Sam Wilson. I’m with SHIELD. The good ones. I’m working with Bruce.”

“Bruce...”

“Yeah. And there’s a few others here you might recognize—”

Someone yells his name, then. Loud, equal parts worried and relieved, and then Clint picks his head up enough to see a familiar figure sprinting down the steps towards him.

Bucky.

The pain suddenly seems to vanish, pushed to the background by something else, his heart swelling with an emotion he couldn’t name if he tried. Tears prick his eyes, tears of joy, of relief, of _sheer fucking happiness_ — “Wait,” he says, holding up his good hand, and Bucky skids to a halt in front of him, arms half extended as he drops to his knees. “Don’t touch—”

There’s a flash of hurt in Bucky’s eyes, and Clint scrambles to clarify. “Broken,” he says, gesturing to his body. “Ribs, hand—”

Anger replaces the hurt as Bucky takes it all in—the collar, the way Clint’s holding himself—and a cold, Winter Soldier-y look appears in his eyes. After a moment, he nods and cups a gentle hand along Clint’s face instead. “This okay?”

“It’s fine,” Clint assures him, moving his good hand to cover Bucky’s. “You can kiss me, I fucking missed you—”

Bucky kisses him, just as gentle as his touch. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “We didn’t know they’d got you, and then it was too late—”

“It’s not your fault,” Clint says. “I _followed_ him, he told me to come with and I just fucking did it, because I didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want them to know. And then it was too late.” He shivers. “Bucky, they—he—”

He tries to put it into words. Tries to describe the drugs, and the beatings, and the way he’d just _crumbled_ under Rumlow’s hands, like all that effort into getting away had been for nothing. All that comes out is a broken sound and a little whimper, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head hard.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Bucky says, kissing his forehead. “Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want to.” He wraps Clint in the carefullest of hugs, then slides a finger under the collar. “I’m gonna take this off, okay?”

“Please,” Clint whispers, tilting his head back. Bucky easily unbuckles it, holding it between his fingers like it’s a particularly disgusting snake.

“You wanna burn it?” Bucky asks, offering it to him. “Or throw it out a window?”

Clint laughs despite himself, which jars his broken ribs all to hell, but at least makes Bucky smile. “I’ll burn it,” he says. “But later. What’s going on? Why are you here? Who’s he? Where’s Nat? How did—”

Behind him, there’s a clanking sound, and Tony lands, his faceplate flipping open to reveal terrified brown eyes. “Clint, oh my god,” he says, dropping to his knees beside them. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to drop you, they shot one of my boots out—”

“’S fine,” Clint says. “Your friend caught me, it’s all good.”

“Told you you’d need backup,” Sam says to Tony.

“Yes, thank you, Birdman. I appreciate you not letting my friend splatter onto the sidewalk.” He looks at Clint. “Can you walk? We need to get you inside.”

“I’ll help him,” Bucky says, and picks Clint up, sweeping him off his feet like he’s nothing. Clint doesn’t even protest, just curls into Bucky and closes his eyes.

Inside is nice—Clint’s been here once or twice, and it’s pretty Tony Stark typical—big windows, lots of tech, overly comfortable couches. Bucky sets him on one couch inside, hovering protectively as Tony comes over with a medical kit. Sam takes it from him and kneels next to Clint. “Can I help?” he asks, holding up a syringe. “Painkillers. The good stuff.”

Clint shudders a little, a sense-memory of Rumlow with a needle suddenly flashing in his mind. But Sam is nice, and Bucky wouldn’t let anyone hurt him. He’s _safe_ here.

And yet.

“Clint,” Bucky says softly, and Clint realizes he’s leaning away from the needle, pressing himself into the couch. “It’s okay. You can say no. We just want to help.”

“They drugged me,” Clint whispers, his voice trembling. “It—it wasn’t good.”

Understatement of the fucking year, but Sam’s face softens, and he nods. “Look,” he says, holding up the bottle. “New, unopened.” He shows Clint the label. “Just painkillers. I won’t give them to you if you don’t want them, but that’s all they are.”

Bucky puts a soothing hand on his knee. “They won’t slow you down,” he says. “I’ve had them before. They’ll just take the edge off. Make things easier for you. What else, besides the ribs and the hand?”

“Foot. Uh...” Clint shrugs, wincing as that hurts too. “I don’t know. Everything?” He turns to look at Tony. “Do we even have _time_ for this, aren’t we—”

Tony waves a hand. “We have time. Not a lot, but we bought ourselves a few hours. We can spend a couple minutes glueing you back together.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Bucky mutters. “Gonna—I _hate_ them—”

“Get in line,” Clint says, and holds his arm out to Sam. “Okay. Fine.”

He frowns at the track marks. “When was the last time they—”

“Yesterday morning.”

“You know what it was?”

“Some kind of nerve agent,” Clint says. “Made me feel everything. Like being on fire. Amplified nerve responses.” He keeps his tone clinical, cold, trying not to show his terror.

Sam nods. “I’ve heard of that stuff.”

“Me too,” says another voice, and Clint turns his head to see Bruce coming over, a glass of water in his hand and a smile on his face. “Hey, Clint.”

“Bruce,” Clint says, sagging against Bucky in relief. “You—you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Bruce agrees. “Sorry about the airport thing—”

“Don’t worry about it, man, you got away. And so did we.” He gestures to himself and Bucky. “For a little bit, anyway.”

Sam asks him a few more questions about his height and weight to help calculate dosage. The last one Clint isn’t sure about, he knows he’s lost weight since this whole thing started. Rumlow dragged him to medical a couple times for antibiotics and other things, but it’s been awhile since that last happened.

He probably should go, when all of this is over. Between the airplane, and jumping off buildings, and being shot, and everything Rumlow did—he’s honestly not sure how he’s standing right now.

Anyway. He answers Sam’s questions to the best of his ability, then tries not to run away screaming as Sam takes his arm and sticks the needle in. Bucky doesn’t budge from his side, his fingers wrapped around Clint’s good hand.

It only takes a few minutes for the drugs to start working, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief as the pain ebbs away. “Okay,” he says, turning to Bucky. “What the hell happened? What’s going on here?”

“We figured out you were missing almost right away,” Bucky says. “You yelled, and then you didn’t answer the comms. So Romanoff and I went looking. When we couldn’t find you, we went back to the ship and contacted Fury.” He brushes a hand through Clint’s hair, then pauses. “Is this okay? Touching you?”

“If you stop I’ll kill you,” Clint says. “I spent three fucking days wishing you were touching me instead of him; I’m about two seconds from climbing in your goddamn lap—” He blinks a little, stopping the stream of words. “Whoa. The good drugs. Okay.”

Bucky is somehow managing to look amused and angry at the same time. “I shouldn’t have let you go alone,” he murmurs, tugging Clint a little closer, until he pretty much _is_ in Bucky’s lap. Which Clint prefers, on the whole. It’s nice here. Warm. “We knew he was out there.”

“Don’t do that,” Clint says, tracing his fingers over Bucky’s jaw. He likes this. The stubble. It’s nice on his fingers. Nice on his mouth, too. He should kiss Bucky again. “Tell me what happened.”

“Fine,” Bucky says. “So we contacted Fury, told him what happened. He got us on a secure line with Stark. We’ve been hiding out here for a few days—we’re only about ten minutes flight time from the Triskelion—then we coordinated the rescue today.” He shakes his head. “I thought a thousand times about coming to get you earlier. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about what they were doing to you—I’m so sorry—”

“Stop it,” Clint says, poking his nose. “No apologies. No time.”

“Fine,” Buck sighs, pulling his head away. “So we all came up with this plan—they knew we were in the system, so Stark and JARVIS set up something where it looked like we weren’t? I don’t know how—”

“I _was_ planning on fucking with their targeting system,” Tony interrupts. “Setting it to each of the helicarriers so they’d shoot each other, boom, problem solved. But since they knew we got in, they found the subroutine, and I had to change to something else.”

“What did you do?” Clint thinks about the targets, and the ever-increasing number on the screen. “They had targets, I saw them.”

“Disabled the guns, essentially,” Tony says. “They got targets, but they can’t do a damn thing right now. That’s what happens when you make electronic triggers. Easily disabled.”

“And you designed their whole system,” Bruce says, elbowing him.

“And I designed it. So I know all the backdoors. JARVIS is running point on that right now. Basically, we took their bullets away, and it’s going to take at least two hours at minimum to get back on track. And in the meantime, we’re going to blow up the helicarriers.”

Clint nods tiredly. “And him?” He gestures to Sam.

“I met him,” Bruce says. “While running from Hydra. He’s a good guy.”

Sam smiles at Clint. “Former pararescue.”

“And the wings?”

Another smile. “Some tech I was using in the military. We stole it.”

“Awesome.” Clint pulls his hand away from Bucky and fist-bumps him, which Sam seems to find inherently amusing. “Where’s Nat?”

“She blew up the Triskelion a little bit,” Bucky says. “We knew they’d be bringing in Stark to monitor things, so she had to make the distraction. That was also the signal for Tony to call his suit.”

Clint looks at him. “You stayed here?”

Bucky sighs. “She asked me not to come with her, and since I can’t fly...” He rubs his eyebrows. “I was wiring detonators, anyway. To blow up the helicarriers.”

“Hot,” Clint says. “Sorry I missed that.”

Bucky smiles slightly. “My eyebrows survived.”

“I see that. Also hot.” Clint reaches up to touch them, his hand nearly whacking Bucky in the face. “Sorry.” He glances at Tony. “Where’s Pepper?”

“I smuggled her out a while ago,” Tony says, and his eyes fill with worry. “She’s okay. She’s in Switzerland.” He pulls up a chair. “So here’s the plan. Between your scary boyfriend, your scary girlfriend, and our new friend, we managed to clear Hydra out of the Tower and escape to here.”

“Okay,” Clint says.

“Scary girlfriend is already on the ground. She’s working with a SHIELD team. They got into the Triskelion basement and blew some of it up. She’s ground assault.” Tony gestures to the rest of them. “Two fliers, two people, and one Hulk. We’re air assault. Two of us get one carrier, other two get the second. Hulk gets one all to himself. We’re going to smash them to pieces—literally, in his case. Knock them out of the sky and drop them in the Potomac. We take the guns, SHIELD takes over the building, and...” Tony gestures. “We try and get things right again.”

Clint nods. “I’m in.”

“I don’t like it,” Bucky says. “ _Look_ at him, Stark. He can barely stand up—”

“Can so!”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway.” Tony shakes his head. “We can’t afford to sideline him. Not right now. We need all hands on deck.”

“He’s only _got_ one hand—”

“I’ve shot with broken fingers before,” Clint says. “Bruce knows how to splint them right for me. Give me enough drugs and wrap my ribs up and I can do anything.” He leans away from Bucky to get a better look at his face. “This is the eleventh hour, man. I can’t—I don’t have _time_ to sit here and cry about what happened to me.”

It’s what he’s been telling himself for the past week, and he can see on Bucky’s face that Bucky believes it about as much as the logical part of himself does, but it’s true. They don’t have a choice. He’s shoved off a breakdown this long, he can do it a little longer.

“We have a chance to win,” he says. “To do James Bond marathons and margaritas and burn that fucking book—you can’t make me sit out because I got beat up a little.”

“A _little_ doesn’t really cover it, Clint,” Bucky mutters, but he _knows_ Clint’s right, and there’s a resigned look in his eye. “Fine. What do you need?”

“I got it,” Bruce says, stepping forward. “He’s right, it’s not the first time we’ve done this—you get hurt on a daily basis, I feel like.”

“Not true,” Clint says, letting Bruce have his broken hand. “I take weekends off from mortal injuries, thank you very much.”

“Duly noted.” Bruce has JARVIS scan his hand, then nods at the results. “Okay, this isn’t as bad as I was thinking. All clean breaks and stable. Who splinted it?”

“Rumlow.”

“Huh. Well. He didn’t do half-bad.”

_I take care of my toys, sweetheart. No fun in breaking you again if you’re not fixed from the first time._

Clint shoves away the memory and lets Bruce do what he needs to do. This is fine. Everything is fine. A few more hours, and this is all over, one way or another.

“What about Thor?” he asks to distract himself.

“He’s still off-world. We haven’t been able to contact him at all.” Tony’s eyes light up. “I have this theory that time moves differently on—”

“Not now,” Bruce sighs, making an apologetic face as he re-wraps Clint’s hand. “Point being, we can’t count on him. This is what we have.”

“Okay. So what, we go up all stealthy, we plant the bombs?”

“That’s the plan.”

Clint nods. “What about the people? Not all of them are Hydra.”

Bucky looks grim. “We don’t have a choice,” he says. “If we try to save anyone...”

“But some of them aren’t—”

“We’re gonna have to accept some casualties,” Tony says.

“Then how does that make us better?” Clint pulls his hand away from Bruce and stands up to face Tony. “‘We all have to make sacrifices’—you know Rumlow said that to me less than an hour ago? We’re better than that, Tony, we _have_ to be—”

“There’s lifeboats on the carriers,” Bruce says. “That’s the best we can offer.”

Bucky stands up, carefully settling a hand on Clint’s arm. “I’m not happy about it either,” he murmurs. “But it’s like you said—we’re down to the eleventh hour, now. There’s no chance to offer anything else.”

Clint sighs and rubs his good hand over his face. “Okay. Fine.” He meets Bucky’s eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” Bucky says, trailing his fingers up Clint’s arm. “And now here you are, and your first thought wasn’t _revenge_ , it was how we could save everybody else.” A gentle smile curves his lips. “You’re amazing.”

Clint ducks his head a little. “I just want to stop Hydra,” he says, his ears heating up a bit. “I don’t—I’m not—they don’t _all_ deserve—”

Bucky kisses him, probably just to shut him up. Then Bruce pulls Clint aside and wraps up his ribs uncomfortably tight. “As good as we can do,” he says, and Clint nods. 

“How are we getting on the carriers?” he asks, looking to Tony. “Aren’t they in the air?”

Tony grins widely. “I got something to show you.” He motions them forward. “Come with me, all of you. To the labs!”

They all follow out of the house to another building, which looks vaguely like a shed on the outside. “Didn’t Hydra lock you out of your labs?” Clint asks.

“Yeah, they _thought_ they locked me out,” Tony says with a slightly manic grin, putting his hand on the door. It scans, and the door slides open, revealing a lab space. It’s pretty much exactly like his one in the tower—scattered tech everywhere, holograms buzzing in midair, various pieces of machinery scattered around. It feels like home, in a weird way. Clint loves it. “They thought wrong. I had a workaround for that ankle monitor about ten minutes after they put it on me. But it was easier to let them think they won.”

“I know that feeling,” Clint mutters.

_Except with you he did win, didn’t he? And you fucking let him._

He shakes the thought off. “So what have you been working on?”

“This,” Tony says grandly, leading them to the back of the shop, where a large dust cover is perched over something. “I’ve been waiting to show you this for a long time.” He pulls off the cover to reveal something that looks like the Batcycle and a _Star Wars_ land speeder got mashed together—Clint _thinks_ it’s supposed to be a motorcycle, but the wheels are huge and not really made for rolling—

“Oh my god,” he says, turning to Tony. “Tony. Did you—did you build me a flying motorcycle?”

“I did,” Tony says, looking pleased as hell, handing him a slim silver band. “This is the key for it—proximity only, you don’t have to insert it.” He hands another one to Bucky. “They’ll also keep you invisible from cameras, so keep them on while you’re running around up there.” He shrugs at Clint. “Sorry it doesn’t really go with your current jewelry, but it’s the only way I could get all the tech to work.”

“I could kiss you,” Clint says, sliding the band around his wrist and turning to him. “You took my drunken rambles and made them reality—you are officially my favorite person.”

Bucky makes an offended noise, and Clint elbows him. “I won’t kiss him,” he says. “But I kinda want to. This is _awesome_.”

“It’s _purple_.”

“Which is partly why it’s awesome. It flies, Bucky! It’s a flying motorcycle!” Clint is way too excited about this, and he knows it, but he can’t really contain it. It’s too fucking cool.

“Guess Stark wasn’t too far off the whole flying cars thing.” Bucky says, and then he blinks, looking confused. “Oh. That’s...new.”

Tony looks confused. “What did I say?”

“Probably not you,” Clint says. “Your dad, maybe? Bucky’s from the forties, he’s friends with Cap.” He looks around. “Wait. Cap. Do we have a plan for him?”

“We haven’t been able to get to him,” Tony says. “But an agent sighted him in Dubai a day or so ago, so we don’t think he’s in the area.”

“Primary target is the carriers,” Bruce adds, nervously tugging on his sleeve. “We’ll have to deal with Steve later.”

It’s not what Clint wanted to hear, but they all have a point, so he just nods and turns back to the motorcycle. “What’re you calling it?”

“Skycycle.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Clint says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“It’s not exactly stealthy,” he says. “They’re going to see us coming from a mile away.”

“I’m hurt you think so little of me,” Tony says. “I’ve got enough stealth and shielding on it to make a cuttlefish jealous. I did my homework. It even turns invisible.”

“To make a—what?”

“Cuttlefish transform themselves to reflect their surroundings,” Bruce says dryly. “If you let him get started—”

“I know better than to let him get started,” Clint says, and Bruce snickers. Tony flips them both off, then gives Clint a crash-course in the controls.

“So you and scary boyfriend get this one,” Tony says. “Wilson and I will fly. Bruce has his own armor.”

“Bruce gets Iron Man armor?”

“He’s borrowing, because it’s the only way he can get up there.” Tony looks at his watch and waves a hand to the corner of the lab. “Okay. We have limited time. There are bombs and detonators over there. Everyone needs to stock up. Nobody is allowed to die.”

“Rousing speech,” Clint says dryly, but he goes over to the table Tony indicated, stocking up on C4 and detonators. Tony disappears for a moment, then comes back with a bow and a quiver. Clint hugs him, despite his ribs protesting. “ _Thank_ you,” he whispers in Tony’s ear. “For all of it. Everything.”

Tony offers him a crooked smile, blinking wetly as they pull apart. “Missed you,” is all he says, and pats Clint on the shoulder. “Come on. Stock up.”

They stock up. Tony finds Clint some decent clothes, and Bucky helps him pull the shirt on over his head, being careful of his ribs. When they’re ready, Clint straddles the Skycyle, a thrilling feeling thrumming through him. “Okay. This is gonna be awesome.”

“You sure you’re up for this?” Bucky asks quietly. “I can take down the helicarrier myself—”

“Shut the fuck up and get on the bike,” Clint says. “You’re not leaving me behind; I don’t care how fucking broken I am, or what shit Rumlow did to me—we already decided it’s an all hands on deck situation. We don’t have _time_ to sit here and cry about it.” _And I’m pretty sure if I even take a moment to think about it, I’m going to absolutely lose my shit._

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Okay—you say you’re good, I trust you.” He studies Clint for a moment, then adds, “Better let me drive it, though. If I’m on the back, I’m gonna have to hold onto you, and your ribs—”

Clint concedes to that reason, and scoots back, letting Bucky sit in front of him. As soon as he’s settled, Clint wraps his arms around him and buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder. “I missed you,” he says. _I screamed for you, while he was torturing me._

He doesn’t add that last part though, because he’s not an asshole. There will be time later to talk about it—about Rumlow, about them, about everything. But right now, he just settles for close contact, for an arm around Bucky’s waist, feeling metal fingers curve over his skin.

“By JARVIS’s account, we’ve got at most an hour before they can bring the guns back online,” Tony says. “An hour to get up there, plant the bombs, and get back down here.”

“How are we setting them off?” Clint asks Tony.

“We need all three to go off within seconds of each other, ideally, so JARVIS has control of the detonation.” He hands Clint a slim remote. “Backup, just in case. Shouldn’t be necessary Coded only to your fingerprint, so it won’t work for anyone else.”

“When did you have time to do all this?” Clint tucks the remote into his pocket.

“I had a lot of free time,” Tony says with a shrug. “And I’ve been planning a Hydra takedown since they walked into my life and thought they could take things from me.”

“Brick by brick,” Clint mutters.

Bucky nods. “How are we getting out of here?”

In answer, Tony waves a hand at the wall, and a section of it lowers down into the floor, creating an opening into the outside world. He pulls up a holographic display from his watch, flipping through it too quickly for Clint to recognize anything. “Okay. We’re good to go.” He points to the Skycycle. “You’ve got shielding and stealth, but don’t be stupid. You’re only undetectable as long as you’re on the bike. As soon as you step off of it, you’re visible.”

Clint nods, and gestures for Bucky to go. “You cool on flying this thing?”

“I drive a motorcycle sometimes,” Bucky says. “How hard can it be?”

Clint thinks about the way he drove the car, and tightens his grip a little. Bucky chuckles in response, his metal hand patting Clint’s arm.

“Good luck,” Bruce says to them, and Sam and Tony both nod. “We’ll be right behind you.”

Tony hands them all comm pieces, and Bucky kicks the Skycycle into gear. There’s no satisfying rumble, which he’s a little sad about. Just a hum as the electric motor starts up. Bucky mutters something about that being a disappointment, and Clint grins into his shoulder.

Then the bike ripples underneath them, and turns—not quite _invisible_ , but it changes to reflect its surroundings, and it’s as cool as it is a little unnerving. “Oh,” Bucky says softly. “Okay.”

“Awesome,” Clint says, and Tony grins widely.

The bike lifts up, and Bucky carefully guides them out the hole in the wall. Clint clings to Bucky despite the muffled protest from his ribs. The seat is wide and he doesn’t _feel_ like he’s going to fall, but his brain keeps interpreting the lack of visual input under him as _danger_.

“I do not like this,” Bucky says, twisting the throttle.

“Me neither,” Clint admits. “I mean...I do, but also this is kind of terrifying.”

“Don’t be babies,” Tony says over the comms. “The bike is still there, you just can’t _see_ it.”

“You’re wrapped up in a suit,” Clint says. “We’re just...hanging out here.”

Tony starts to respond, but then Bucky kicks the bike up higher, and any words are lost to the rushing wind.

Clint doesn’t know exactly where they were, but it only takes them about ten minutes to get back to D.C. proper, for the Triskelion to come into view. The helicarriers are all still here, hanging out in the sky. Bucky angles for the furthest one. “Be ready,” he says to Clint, shouting over the wind.

Clint doesn’t really understand the whole cloaking and shielding thing Tony’s got going on, but he’s relieved that despite the busy landing deck, nobody notices them as they approach. The Skycycle is small enough and maneuverable enough that Bucky can follow one of the jets into the hangar bay, then park it in a corner, away from any sight lines.

“Okay,” he says. “As soon as we get off this, we’re visible?”

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” Clint says. His heart is pounding, loud enough that he can hear it in his ears. “Tony said these’ll keep us protected from the cameras. We can try and get uniforms, blend in, or we can just...be stealthy. Avoid people.”

“We’re pressed for time,” Bucky says. “Just stay out of sight as best you can. Anyone bothers you, I’ll punch them.”

“You’re so kind,” Clint says dryly, and gets off the bike. He grabs one bag of C4 and detonators, handing the other to Bucky. “Here. We don’t have a ton, so—”

“I get it,” Bucky interrupts. “Don’t get too far from me. If you get picked up again, I will not be responsible for my actions. Got it?”

Clint tries for a smile. It probably looks more gruesome than anything, considering how beat up he is, but he tries anyway. “Same to you,” he says. “Anyone starts talking in Russian, you fucking shoot them.”

Bucky kisses him, which Clint figures is as good as a ‘yes’, and moves away, disappearing into the shadows. For a big broad guy who’s built like a fucking tank, Bucky _really_ knows how to disappear when he needs to.

Clint goes the opposite way, doing his best to focus on the task and not think about what happened the last time he was on a helicarrier. Weirdly enough, he’s not as panicked as he was that time, although he suspects the drugs are still helping to take the edge off it a little bit. It’s helpful, at least. Probably not something he should get used to, but it’s nice in this moment. Allows him to think about what he’s doing, rather than what could happen.

“Okay,” he says into his comms. “I’m covered on my end. You remember where we swapped the chips out?”

“Yeah.”

“A couple charges there should do the rest. I don’t think we need to cover the whole ship—we’re just trying to knock it out of the sky, not blow it completely to pieces.”

“Okay. Come around to the south side.”

Clint makes his way over, vaguely feeling like he’s playing some weird version of hide and seek mixed with parkour. But he gets there without detection, meeting up with Bucky in an alcove. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Bucky says, checking him over for injuries. “You okay? How are you feeling?”

“I’m good.” Clint kisses him. “Drugs are still working.”

“Good.” Bucky peeks around the corner, then says, “Clear. Let’s go.”

There’s not as many people as Clint would’ve expected. He’s not sure why, but it at least makes sneaking around easier. The room with the targeting system is eerily empty as well, which kind of makes his skin crawl.

“We’ve got about twenty minutes,” he says to Bucky. “But the faster the better.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he climbs up on the railing, then jumps up to another catwalk, easily grabbing the metal grate and hauling himself up.

“Showoff,” Clint calls up, and Bucky grins down at him.

Clint stays on the one level. He tucks two charges directly into the system hub, then makes a circuit of the catwalks, using up the last of his supply.

“Going to be an earth-shattering kaboom,” he says in his best Marvin the Martian impression, then presses on his ear. “You done up there?”

“There’s a slight problem,” Bucky says, voice sounding strained.

Clint’s blood runs cold. “A Rumlow problem?”

“No.”

Well, that’s cryptic. Clint looks up, but he can’t see anything, so he circles around to a ladder and climbs up. The drugs are wearing off now, the aches and pains in his body starting to make themselves known again. His hand is the worst, throbbing painfully with every motion. “Bucky, we only have like ten minutes—”

He gets up to the top and awkwardly climbs off the ladder. Bucky’s only a few feet away from him, and he looks unharmed, at least. He’s standing tensely, left fist clenched, right hand gripping his pistol, staring at something on the other side of the room.

“What’s the problem?” Clint starts to ask, but then he follows Bucky’s line of sight, and a pit forms in his stomach. He recognizes the figure on the other side of the catwalk—brutally short blond hair, stiff posture, a blank expression where there used to be an easy smile and kind eyes.

Clint swallows hard, stepping up a little closer. “Hey, Steve,” he says, awkwardly waving with his good hand.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Steve says, voice toneless, and he raises his shield. There’s a Hydra logo on it now, horrible and ugly.

“None of us should be here,” Clint says, putting a hand on Bucky’s arm, a silent show of support. “But here we are anyway.”

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice is soft, and pained, and he takes a step forward, like he’s being pulled towards him. “Steve. It’s me. It’s _Bucky_.”

“I don’t know you,” Steve says.

Bucky makes a pained noise. “I know you don’t. But you did, once. You’re my friend.”

“You’re my mission.”

Another pained noise, and Bucky takes a shuddering breath. “You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You’re more than what they made you. More than what they put in your head.” Steve doesn’t respond, and Bucky moves closer. “The pain in your head—that’s _them_. They’re trying to turn you into something you’re not.”

“Order only comes through pain,” Steve intones.

“People are going to _die_ , Steve.” Bucky’s voice is almost pleading. “I can’t let that happen.”

“I have to stop you.”

“Please don’t make me do this,” Bucky says, stepping forward again.

“I don’t have a choice,” Steve says, and he throws his shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumlow laughs. “So what was the big plan here, boys? Stark comes for the puppy, you come for your brainwashed buddy, and you all run away into the sunset together? Guess that didn’t work out so well, did it?” He’s bouncing on his toes, all manic energy now. There’s still anger in his voice, but at this point he seems more delighted than anything, looking between Bucky and Clint and Steve like all his Christmases have come at once.

Bucky moves faster than Clint’s ever seen. He shoves Clint behind himself, snaps out his metal arm, and catches the shield with a resounding _clang_. It’s badass as hell, really, and Clint isn’t sure if he should cheer or run away screaming.

“Go,” Bucky says to him. “Go. _Now_.”

“I am _not_ leaving you—”

Steve pulls out a gun and takes aim. Bucky deflects the bullets with the shield, then jumps up, twists in midair, and uses the momentum to throw it back at Steve. It slams into Steve’s chest, sending him flying backwards on the catwalk. He hits the wall on the opposite side and falls to the floor, dazed.

“This can’t be your fight,” Bucky says quickly, turning to Clint. “Let me do this one. Get on the bike and go.”

“But what about—”

“I’ll steal a plane,” Bucky says, and kisses him. “God knows I’ve had practice.” He pushes Clint towards the ladder. “Go, darlin’.”

He wants to argue, but Bucky’s got a point. Clint couldn’t beat Steve on his best day, and he’s not exactly in tiptop shape going into this. One good hit, and he’s down for the count. As much as it kills him to do so, this is one fight he needs to back down from.

“Okay,” Clint says, and he sees the relief in Bucky’s eyes. “Whatever you’re gonna do, do it quick. We don’t have too much longer before the charges go off.” He kisses Bucky, then says, “Don’t kill him.”

“He’s my friend,” Bucky murmurs, looking at Steve’s slowly stirring form. “I’m not going to.” Steve starts to get up, and Bucky shoves Clint aside. “Go. Go _now_.”

Clint goes. He gets his ass back down the ladder, getting away from the fight as much as he can. He’s not worried about Steve following him—Bucky’s clearly the bigger threat in the room—but he does take a moment to scoop up the gun that had fallen, tucking it into the back of his pants. He’s got his bow strapped to him, but it never hurts to have too many weapons.

He sneaks his way back through the helicarrier, moving as stealthily as he can. If he wasn’t shattered to pieces he’d crawl through the air ducts, give himself a little more privacy, but as it is he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to crawl his way up there at all. The drugs are definitely wearing off now. God, he feels _awful_ , like that time when he and Nat were in Abu Dhabi and he got hit by a car. He’d actually gone to the hospital for that one. Shattered too many bones to walk it off.

_You need a new fucking job_ , he thinks, barely holding back a hysterical giggle. Yeah. Okay. He needs to get out of here, back to the Skycycle, back to Tony and the others—

Someone moves across the hallway in front of him, and he ducks into a doorway. Except as he does, he misjudges the steps and catches the edge of the door on his shoulder. Normally that would be fine, but in _this_ state—well, he’s lucky no one hears the loud string of curses that fall from his lips.

“Get it together,” he hisses at himself, pressing a hand to his ribs like that’s gonna hold him in one piece. “You gotta get out of here, come on—”

_You’re not going to make it_ , some little part of him hisses. Some little part that sounds a lot like Rumlow, honestly. _You should just give up. You can barely stand up straight, how the hell are you gonna get to the bike and save Bucky?_

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, dropping himself. “I’m _fine_.”

But he’s not fine, and the more turns he makes, the more clear that becomes. He has to backtrack twice, too distracted by the increasing pain to notice that he’s making wrong turns. After a few minutes, he ends up circling back to where he was before, only a few hallways over from the targeting system room.

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning against the wall. He needs to get his shit together, and he needs to do it _now_.

He squints at the signposts on the wall, noting in particular the one that says _Sickbay_. There’s a thought, really. He could sneak in there, steal some painkillers. Anything to take the edge off. If he gets on the Skycycle like this, there is a very real chance he’s going to fall off and turn himself into a sidewalk-style Jackson Pollock painting.

Clint checks the time, then forces himself to move, following the signs. He can make it to the Skycycle. He _can_. He just...needs a little help first.

He’s turning the corner when something slams into him. There’s a white-flash of pain, and when he opens his mouth to scream, all that comes out is a grunt of pain. “The fuck—”

“Hiya sweetheart,” Rumlow says, shoving him into the wall. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Oh, _fuck you_ —” Clint snaps, and he ducks from under Rumlow’s arm. “No. Not this time, asshole.”

“That was a nice stunt you pulled,” Rumlow says, letting him twist away. “How’d you work that out with Stark?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Clint growls. He keeps backing away, senses on high alert. Rumlow let him go too easy just now, there’s something else going on. He keeps an eye out for other agents, other people—

Sure enough, there’s movement out of the corner of his eye, and he whips around, automatically going for his bow, unfolding it and nocking an arrow in a lightning fast motion. It _hurts_ to pull back on the string, hurts like hell, but it also feels _so fucking good_ —

The person collapses with an arrow in their eye, and Clint turns back to Rumlow. He doesn’t waste time with words, just nocks another arrow and fires it at him. But Rumlow’s already moving, ducking out of the way and around a corner.

Around the corner in the direction _Clint_ needs to go, specifically, and he scowls in disappointment. He’ll have to backtrack. So much for stealing drugs. So much for getting the fuck out of here. _How did he know I was here?_

“I would like to know,” Rumlow says. “It was a nice move. I’m impressed.” He peeks around the corner, and Clint looses the arrow. “Hey, now. Let’s not get crazy.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Clint says.

“You tried that already, sweetheart. It didn’t go so well, did it?”

There’s footsteps behind Clint, and he whips around in time to duck a punch. Clint drops the arrow, and swings his bow, cracking the agent across the head. He jumps over the body and moves down the hallway, nocking another arrow. He’s going the wrong direction, and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it right now.

“Oh damn,” Rumlow says. “You’re feisty now. I thought I broke that out of you.” He steps out from where he’s hiding, and there’s a blue shield in front of him. It’s like the one Tony was using, sparking energy. Clint looses the arrow at it anyway, despite knowing the outcome. Sure enough, the arrow bounces off it, clattering uselessly to the floor.

Rumlow laughs. “Gonna be that kinda day, huh?” He’s grinning, but there’s a dark edge to it, and Clint can almost _see_ the anger curling underneath his skin. He’s pissed off. Really, really pissed off.

_Good._

“You talk too damn much,” Clint snarls, and ducks around the corner. He can go up this way, and then—

Another agent grins at him. Martin or something, Clint vaguely recognizes him, doesn’t remember his name. “Hey there, Barton,” he says, and Clint immediately ducks as he raises a gun. The brief flash of it shows him it’s not a real gun, just a tranquilizer, which does _not_ mean good things. He’d rather die than go back to Rumlow at this point.

He looses an arrow and keeps moving backwards, towards the door that he just left through a few minutes ago. He _really_ doesn’t want to go through it—getting between two super-soldiers is not the best idea in the world—but also, he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. Rumlow’s got the other exits covered, and Clint is too hurt to just try forcing his way through.

_Go through here, block the door, climb up a level. There’s other ways out._ He could break radio silence, try and call for Tony or Sam—

A dart whizzes past his ear, and the decision is made for him. The doors open automatically as he gets close, and he ducks through them, then shoots the control panel. They slam closed, and the panel fizzes and sparks. Clint nods in satisfaction, then turns around.

“Down!” yells a familiar voice, and Clint drops to the ground, wincing at the flare of pain. Half a second later, a shield slams into the wall where his head was.

“Shit,” Clint mutters, scrambling back up to his feet. Then Bucky is there, yanking him upright and grabbing the shield with his metal arm.

“I told you to go!” he says sharply as they back up, moving towards the control column in the middle.

“Rumlow,” Clint says, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. “He didn’t hurt me, but he tried to grab me—I don’t know how he knew I was here—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky says, looking up. “I can’t get through to him. I can’t even get him to slow down.”

Clint looks up too, seeing Steve glaring down at them. “Knock him out,” he says quietly. “Whack him in the head. We can drag him with us.”

“Not if they know we’re here,” Bucky says. “How many were out that way?”

“Three or four.” Clint motions towards the back. “There’s other ways, but we’re not leaving without Steve.” He reaches into his quiver. “I’ve got trick arrows—knockout ones, or net arrows, or...” He brightens. “Putty arrows—we can trap him in some putty, and stick—no wait, that’ll stick to us too.”

Bucky stares at him, something like amusement warring with the urgency still there. “You have...trick arrows?”

“I am a man of many surprises,” Clint says. “We should move now.”

Bucky shakes his head, a half-smile curling over his face, and tugs Clint back further. “Come on. Can you actually hit him with one of those?”

“He’s fast,” Clint admits. “But if you distract him, I can do it.” He glances at the door that Rumlow chased him through. “We’re short on time, though, so we better do it quick.”

There’s a gunshot, and Bucky yanks Clint back even further. “Okay. I can do that.”

Steve jumps down from where he is, landing in front of them. He narrows his eyes at the shield in Bucky’s hand. “That’s mine.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees.

Steve’s gaze flickers to Clint, and there’s a slight moment of surprise. “Barton?”

Clint blinks, then moves from behind Bucky. “Yeah, Steve. It’s me.”

“They were looking for you.”

“They found me.” Clint tugs his shirt down, revealing the ring of bruises around his neck. “But I got away. And so did Nat, and Bruce, and Tony. We’re out, Steve. And we can help you. We _want_ to help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Steve snarls. He takes a few steps forward. “I’m where I’m supposed to be. My work is a gift to mankind. I’m shaping the century.”

“Those are Pierce’s words,” Bucky says, and he sounds sad. “Believe me, Steve. I _know_. I got the same damn speeches.” He steps forward, shield hanging at his side. “You gotta listen to me, man—“

“I don’t _know_ you,” Steve says.

“You do know him.” Clint moves forward. “I promise you do. And me, too. But we can hash all that out later. Can you just...” He reaches forward. He’s not really sure what he’s expecting—Steve to take his hand?—but he does it anyway, loosely gripping his bow with the other. “Come with us?”

Steve looks at his hand, and for a moment Clint thinks he’s actually going to do it. There’s something in his eyes, in his face—it’s still that cold mask, but there’s a hint of softness now, of recognition, a tiny bit of the real Steve shining through. He takes a short breath, lips parting slightly. “Clint—”

But then behind them, the door blasts open, and a river of Hydra agents stream into the room, covering the catwalks from all angles. Clint backs up, getting a sudden sense of deja vu. It’s like the Red Room all over again, him and Bucky against everyone else, and—

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers to him. “I got your back.”

_Ten words,_ Nat whispers in the back of his mind, and Clint shoves it away. This is fine. It’ll all be fine. There’s always a way out.

“Well,” Rumlow says, stepping through the crowd. “Isn’t _this_ a happy reunion?”

There’s too many guns on them for Clint to shoot him—or rather, he _could_ but he wouldn’t survive the next four seconds—but he keeps the arrow up anyway. The drugs are completely worn off, but there’s enough adrenaline blaring through his system that he doesn’t really feel anything. “Fuck off, Rumlow.”

“And I see the dream team is back together,” Rumlow says, nodding towards Steve and Bucky. “Freezerburn, good to see you again. Meet your replacement.”

“To quote a close friend,” Bucky says, pushing Clint behind himself a little more, “fuck off.”

Rumlow laughs. “So what was the big plan here, boys? Stark comes for the puppy, you come for your brainwashed buddy, and you all run away into the sunset together? Guess that didn’t work out so well, did it?” He’s bouncing on his toes, all manic energy now. There’s still anger in his voice, but at this point he seems more delighted than anything, looking between Bucky and Clint and Steve like all his Christmases have come at once.

“Guess not,” Bucky says evenly. Clint can practically taste the tension coiling through him, but he doesn’t make any moves, likely coming to the same conclusions Clint has. “Worth a try.”

“Mmm.” Rumlow goes deadly still, suddenly, eyes locked on Bucky. “Your boyfriend tell you what I did to him?”

“He doesn’t have to,” Bucky says, just as cold. “I can _see_ it.”

“He cried for you, you know. Called your name and everything. It was real sweet.”

Bucky’s hand twitches, and there’s a slight hitch in his breathing. Clint hesitates for a moment, then steps a little closer, putting his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I killed Rollins,” Bucky says. “He tried to control me, and I threw a knife at his throat and I killed him.” He takes a step forward, menacing aura suddenly pouring off him. “He begged for you too, you know.”

Rollins hadn’t said anything at all when he died, but that doesn’t matter. Clint can see the way Rumlow’s face tightens, the way pain crosses into his eyes. Rumlow might not know what love is, but he _definitely_ had something with Rollins.

“Fuck you,” Rumlow snarls, and Clint wonders if anyone else can hear the light tremor in his voice, or if Clint’s so aware of his moods that he’s the only one.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. They’re fucked. Bucky can say all the cruel things he wants, but they don’t have any outs here. They’re surrounded, outgunned, outnumbered, and despite how desperately Clint’s searching, he doesn’t see any possible way they can get off this helicarrier before it blows.

Bucky lets out a hollow laugh. “Touched a nerve, Rumlow?”

Rumlow’s eyes are narrowed, and his fists are clenched. “Think what you want,” he finally says, offering a smile that doesn’t come anywhere near his eyes. “Might as well, while you can. Enjoy your last couple thoughts as a free man.” He makes a motion with his hand, and a couple Hydra agents peel off from the others to grab Clint. Bucky makes a little twitching motion at that, but at point-blank range of half a dozen weapons, that’s pretty much the only thing he _can_ do.

They take Clint’s weapons and usher him over to Rumlow, who’s flipped back to utter delight. “Barton.”

“Asshole.”

“Hmm.” Rumlow throws an arm around his shoulders. “Your escapes are getting shorter, sweetheart. I don’t know why you’re even bothering to try, at this point.”

“Because you keep fucking _talking_ ,” Clint says, ducking away from him. He winces at the flash of pain. “Even ten minutes away from you is like a vacation at this point.”

“Oh, puppy,” Rumlow sighs, all faux sweet. “You’re hurting my feelings.” He grabs Clint again, tugging him in closer.

“Don’t fucking touch him,” Bucky snarls, stepping closer. “You—” More guns level at him, and Bucky stops, practically vibrating with tension. “Let him go. I’ll stay.”

“Bucky, no—” 

“That’s fucking adorable,” “Rumlow says. “But no. We’re not playing the self-sacrificing game. Here’s what’s gonna happen. Because I’m so goddamn nice, I’m gonna let freezerburn one and two fight it out. Old model versus new. Winner gets the shield. Loser...” He shrugs. “Well. I’m sure you can imagine.”

Clint looks at the shield with the Hydra logo plastered on it, and shivers. Yeah. He knows what Rumlow’s saying. It’s a fight to the death. Which honestly sounds fucking ridiculous—what is this, Ancient Rome?—but there’s a very real tone to Rumlow’s voice, and Clint knows he means it. Even if Steve or Bucky doesn’t kill the other, only one of them is coming out alive.

Bucky stares at Clint, a mixture of resignation and fear and worry on his face. He looks so tired, suddenly, broken and defeated. It twists Clint’s heart, seeing him look like that. He’d promised Bucky. He’d _promised_ him. “ _They can’t have you again. I. Won’t. Let. Them.”_

_It’s not fair,_ he wants to scream, like he’s wanted to scream this whole time. Bucky is a good person, and a better man than Clint, and he deserves better than to die fighting Hydra twice in one lifetime.

Rumlow motions for everyone to back up, and they do, albeit warily. “No weapons. No shield, no guns. Just a good old-fashioned punch each other in the face kind of deal. Got it?” He turns to one of the agents. “You can shoot them if they get too rowdy.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “And what about Clint?”

“Oh, puppy and I will go get ringside seats. I want him to have a good view.” He runs fingers through Clint’s hair, yanks backwards. “Come on, puppy.”

“Fuck you,” Clint snarls, but that’s all he really can do. He can’t fight Rumlow off, he never fucking could. He’s going to die on this stupid helicarrier, sitting next to the person he hates most in this world, and there’s a very real chance that Bucky is going to end up dying at the hands of his former best friend.

Rumlow tugs him up the stairs, leading him over to a ledge sticking out. “Come one,” he says, dropping to the ground and yanking Clint down to sit beside him, legs dangling over the edge. “Sit. Let’s watch. Wanna place bets?”

“You’re sadistic,” Clint says, which is stupid because Rumlow already fucking _knows_ that, and he just grins when Clint says it. “I’m not—I’m not playing your goddamn game. I’m _not_.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Rumlow pats his head. “You had me worried, you know. I saw you fall. Good thing that other guy saved you. And then you went to Stark’s safe house, right?” He pulls out his phone and shows Clint a map with a little GPS pin in it. “That’s it, right?”

Clint stares at the phone, and then at him. “How did you—”

“There’s a tracking device in your arm,” Rumlow says, nonchalant, like that’s a normal thing to say. “I had it put in after the first night. You were pretty out of it, I’m not surprised you don’t remember.” He puts his phone back in his pocket. “And then you came up here. How’d you pull that one off? Nobody saw you or freezerburn approaching.”

“Fuck off,” Clint says, fingers skimming over his arm, finding the half-healed wound. He presses on it, feeling the subtle bump beneath the skin, and has a sudden urge to rip it out of his arm. “Honestly? You can go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. Tell Rollins I say hi.”

There’s another flash of anger in his eyes, and he covers it up with an amused snort. “Cute.” He jabs an elbow into Clint’s side, watches with a gleeful look as Clint doubles over and nearly passes out from the pain. “Where’s your collar? I went to all that trouble to get a nice one for you, and you just lost it?”

“Lit it on fire,” Clint snaps, grabbing Rumlow’s questing hand and twisting it. Rumlow easily breaks the hold, but Clint’s not really trying to hang onto him—he just wants to see Rumlow’s watch. _Five more minutes._

He can see how it’s going to go—he knows where his charges are placed, the shape and size of them. They’ll blow out the outer wall, and the support structures, and shatter the ridiculous amount of glass in here. The ones in the cargo bay were bigger. Once those go, the chain reaction should blow out one of the engines. And from there, that should be the end of this helicarrier.

He grits his teeth, trying to think of things other than falling to his death twice in one day, and pulls his hand away from where Rumlow’s gripping it. “Sorry,” he mutters automatically, then cringes at himself.

Rumlow starts to respond, but then he grins and nudges Clint. “Look,” he says, pointing down. “This oughta be good.”

Steve and Bucky are standing maybe ten feet apart. They’re both weaponless, facing each other. Steve’s face is terrifyingly blank, and Bucky’s is so full of emotion that Clint has a sudden urge to jump down and comfort him.

“You gonna fight or you gonna stare into each other's eyes?” Rumlow calls down. Bucky glances up at him, and in that short movement, Steve attacks. He launches himself forward, slamming into Bucky, and knocking him down to the metal grates.

“No—” Clint starts to get up—to do _what_ , he doesn’t know. He’s already shattered, there’s no fucking way he’s going to survive in the middle of a super soldier fight, but he can’t just sit here and _watch_ this—

“Hey,” Rumlow snaps, and yanks him back down. “Nope. You’re staying right here, sweetheart. I want you to have a good view.” He pulls Clint almost into his lap, one arm locking around him. “Don’t move.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Clint snarls, struggling despite the white-hot flashes of pain it sends through him. “Make them stop, you _won_ , isn’t that enough—”

“No,” Rumlow snarls in his ear. He yanks Clint’s head back again, baring his throat, and wraps a hand around his neck. Clint immediately goes still, half a dozen memories rearing their heads at the touch. “No. It’s not enough. I thought I made your place clear to you, Barton, but apparently there’s just no getting through that thick skull of yours. So you know what’s going to happen?”

“I’m going to—”

“Kill me, yeah yeah. Save the song and dance. We’re going to watch this. No matter who wins this damn fight, your boyfriend’s dead. I’m thinking a knife to the throat, return the fucking favor for Rollins. Then you and I are getting out of here. You’re gonna tell me how Stark knew where to find you, who your new friend is, and any plans you might’ve come up with during your little excursion. And then you and I are gonna go over the goddamn rules one by one until they stick in your fucking head.” His hand squeezes tighter with every word, until Clint can barely choke in air. “Understand me, sweetheart?”

Below them, Bucky and Steve are exchanging blows. They’re evenly matched, all things considered, but Steve’s got just the tiniest bit of an upper hand. Bucky’s pulling punches, missing openings, and holding back when he should be attacking.

_Because Bucky’s not trying to kill him_ , Clint thinks, and for half a second wishes he _was_ , because he doesn’t want Steve to kill Bucky.

Then he hates himself, because he wants _both_ of them to walk out of this alive. Picking one or the other is Rumlow’s game, and he’s not playing.

He nods under Rumlow’s hand, and Rumlow lets go, allowing him to suck in air. Clint coughs, glancing sideways at his watch. _Two minutes._

There’s a ragged yell from beneath them, and Clint looks down in time to see Steve shoving Bucky down to the ground and punching him in the face, over and over and over. Bucky makes a limp attempt to defend himself, but Steve pins him easily, snarling something with every punch.

“Ooh,” Rumlow says, pinning Clint down as he starts to get up again. “Look at that.”

When he pulls back for another one, Bucky’s eyes lock onto Clint’s. He can’t see much from this distance, but he can read the expression on Bucky’s face—the hopeless, broken look. His metal arm raises, not to defend himself, but to reach up, like he’s extending it for Clint—

Then Steve punches him again, and Clint can’t take it anymore. He’s not sitting here, like Rumlow’s fucking lapdog, just waiting for his friend to beat his boyfriend to death. He’s just not. He shifts out of Rumlow’s lap with a sudden, violent move. It jars his ribs and nearly makes him vomit, but he does it fast enough that he can twist away. Rumlow reaches for him, snagging his good hand, and raises an eyebrow. “Where do you think you’re going, puppy?”

Clint doesn’t bother answering. He shoves his broken hand into his pocket, fingers closing around the slim detonator Tony gave him. He pulls it out and presses his finger to the button, hoping and praying that it’ll work.

There’s a long moment where nothing happens. Clint stares at Rumlow, who stares back at him, something between confusion and annoyance on his face. Then he starts to get up, expression morphing into the kind of look that usually means Clint’s in a whole world of trouble.

_It didn’t work,_ Clint thinks, and closes his eyes, the detonator slipping from his hand. _We failed._

“The hell is this?” Rumlow asks, reaching for it. “Huh? What’re you trying to pull?”

Clint opens his mouth to answer—a lie or the truth, he doesn’t know.

There’s a rumbling sound under his feet.

The ledge shakes, hard enough to make both of them stumble.

And then the world explodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM NOT SORRY
> 
> (i _am_ sorry this is later than usual, my writing time kept getting interrupted with wholesome family fun)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/) Fun fact, I'm also participating in this years Marvel Trumps Hate auction! If you'd like to bid to win a story from me, please go check out my tumblr post for further instructions! <3 
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you for doing this one right at the wire. Love you <3


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The carrier is pitching and rolling more fiercely, and there’s a swooping sensation in his stomach that says they’re starting to go down. Best guess, he has less than five minutes. The safety features on the helicarriers are insane, but they’re intended to keep the thing up long enough to get people off, and that’s about it. He needs to get to the Skycycle.

Clint doesn’t waste a moment. He can’t _afford_ to waste a moment. Not this time. The force of the explosions rocks the ledge enough to loosen him from Rumlow’s grasp, and he immediately rips his hand free, moving to grab the wall for support.

The explosions aren’t as big as he thought they’d be, but there’s _definitely_ a massive hole in the side of the carrier, and the whole thing is listing at a precarious angle.

“You little shit,” Rumlow snarls, reaching for him, and Clint punches him in the face.

It’s not a good hit. He’s tired, and he’s in pain, and the carrier is rumbling and moving underneath him. But there’s still a satisfying crack of his fist against Rumlow’s nose, and he sees the bright red of blood flowing underneath. “Fuck you,” Clint says, and then he’s moving, bolting back down the stairs and into the scattered mess of dazed Hydra agents. 

Steve is on the ground next to Bucky, having been tossed off by the explosion. Clint ignores him for a moment and goes right to Bucky. “Get up,” he says, reaching down with his good hand. “Come on, we gotta move, we gotta get back to the bike—”

Bucky looks a mess—bleeding, bruised, and eye swelling shut—but at Clint’s words, he sits up, wipes off the blood and clambers to his feet. “I know.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” He turns to Steve. “Steve. Get up. Come on.”

Steve blinks up at them from the ground. “I—” He rubs a hand over his face. There’s a nasty bruise already forming on his forehead, and he looks confused as hell. “What—”

“You’re coming with us,” Clint says, ignoring the nagging doubts that the Skycycle can hold two super-soldiers. They just have to get down to the ground. It doesn’t have to be pretty. “We can talk it out later.”

“He’s my mission—”

“This place is going down,” Clint says, keeping a wary eye on the Hydra agents, who are starting to get back on their feet. “Either stay here and die, or come with us.”

It comes out sharper than he means, but the world is falling to pieces around them, and his ribs fucking hurt, and he wants to go home. He doesn’t have the time or the energy to talk Steve back from the brink. Not now. They need to get out of here fast. There are backups upon backups for the helicarrier, but there’s no way this thing is going to stay in the sky much longer.

Steve looks between the two of them, his gaze lingering on Bucky. “I...” He starts.

“Stevie,” Bucky says. “Come with us. Please.”

Something softens in Steve’s gaze, a hint of memory crossing his face. He nods and reaches down, picking up his shield. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and Clint is suddenly reminded of the airport in India, how Bucky’s face had suddenly shifted into something more human, traces of a Brooklyn accent seeping through. It’s the same thing now, like a mirror into the past.

“Good,” Bucky says, and the carrier rocks again.

Clint stumbles into Bucky, vision nearly whiting out at the flare of pain. “ _Fuck!_ ” He grabs onto Bucky to stay upright, gasping for air. “Let’s go, _please_ —”

“Let’s go,” Bucky agrees, and takes something from Steve—Clint’s bow and quiver, he realizes distantly. He slings them over his own shoulder and looks at Clint. “You okay to walk?”

“I’m fine,” Clint lies. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bucky looks skeptical, but there really isn’t time to argue. He turns and punches a Hydra agent trying to get the drop on them, then nods towards the door. “This way.”

“Hey!”

The shout comes from behind them, and Clint turns to see Rumlow standing there, gun up and eyes furious. “I’m not fucking done with you,” he says, aiming at them.

“Yeah you are,” Clint says. “It’s over, asshole.” He gestures around them, at the carrier that’s splintering and falling to pieces. “You really think you got the upper hand here?”

“You—”

He’s cut off by a massive crack, which is followed by a groaning, grinding sound that echoes all around the room. They all look up in time to see one of the pillars start to teeter, tilting dangerously towards them.

“Move!” Bucky yells, and drags Clint backwards. Steve moves with them, Rumlow scrambles backwards, and they all barely manage to clear the way before the pillar falls between them, ripping through the catwalks and shattering the weird glass floor with an almighty crash.

It also cracks through the catwalk they’re on, bending the metal, and Clint loses his grip on Bucky, slipping to the floor. He rolls with the slope, barely managing to catch himself with his good hand before he slips over the edge. He screams, half from the pain and half from the terror of dangling from a precipice with only one hand.

It’s Steve who grabs him, lifting him up like he weighs nothing. “I got you,” he says, setting Clint on his feet, steadying him.

“This way!” Bucky yells, and Clint and Steve follow him, stumbling up the sloped, twisting metal and through the doors.

It’s no better in the hallway. The emergency lights are on, bathing everything in a dim red glow, and everything is rumbling and shaking. No one bats an eye as their odd little trio moves down the corridor. Clint is vividly reminded of his dream from the cell, the way the halls of the Triskelion were red-lit and gleaming, and how his team stalked through them, taking back what was theirs.

He hopes this ends the same way—with Rumlow dead, and SHIELD taking over. Fury rebuilding. Steve getting his memories back. Clint and Bucky and Nat chasing down the remaining cells. A motel room. A cheap beer.

_I think I love you._

“Stay with me,” Bucky says to him, and Clint forces himself back to the moment. They can have all that. They _can_.

They just have to get out of here first.

“Go left here,” he says to Bucky. “We can go down the hall there, and then—”

“No,” Steve says. “This way.” He motions opposite.

“But we—”

“This way,” Steve insists, turning and hurrying off. Bucky trades a glance with Clint, then runs after him, half-helping, half-pulling Clint along with him.

Clint grits his teeth. “We have to _go_ ,” he insists.

“You want to leave him?”

Part of Clint wants to say yes, because Steve is a grown-ass super soldier and can handle his own shit. The rest of him realizes that’s mostly the pain talking. “No,” he says. “But we gotta go fast.”

“I know.”

They follow Steve down the hallway making a couple different turns before winding up outside the detention cells. Clint recognizes them immediately from his own experiences in one. He shudders, remembering the hours it took to pry Loki out of his head, to get those cold words to stop whispering in his mind.

Bucky casts him a concerned look, but Clint just shakes his head. It’s not the time. “What are we doing here?” he asks Steve, who doesn’t answer. Instead, he slams his shield into one of the door locks, splintering it with a spray of sparks.

It slides open to reveal a man laying on the cot. He’s beat all to hell, bruised and bleeding, but he lifts his head when the door opens.

“Oh my god,” Clint says. “Colonel Rhodes? Is that you?”

“Barton,” Rhodes says. He sounds confused, his voice thick and sluggish. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Rescuing you, apparently?” Clint looks to Steve.

“He tried to help me,” Steve says. “I think. I don’t know him. But he says he knows me.”

“Helpin’ Fury,” Rhodes mutters, pushing himself up. “Me and Tony been tryin’ to get Steve out for months—I thought you died, Barton, Christ—” He staggers to his feet, stumbling into the wall.

“Help him,” Clint says, and Bucky lets go of him to steady Rhodes. “Does Tony know you’re here?”

“Been here for days,” Rhodes says. “I don’t know. Is he alive?”

“He is. He’s helping us. We blew up the carrier, Rhodes, we gotta get off it and go.” Clint looks at Steve, who’s staring at Rhodes like he’s a particularly difficult math problem or something.

“Wondered what that was,” Rhodes says, and he straightens his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They get out of the detention hallway, trying to keep their balance as the carrier continues to move under their feet, pieces of it falling and tumbling around them. People run past, flowing to exit points and life rafts, and all Clint can do is just hope that the good ones make it off in time.

“Where’s Tony?” Rhodes asks.

“He was getting the other carrier,” Clint says. “Buck, do you have your comms still? They took mine.”

“I don’t,” Bucky says. “They took mine too.”

“Fuck. Okay, if we can get to the Skycycle—”

The carrier pitches again, tossing Bucky and Clint into the wall. Steve manages to grab Rhodey, steadying him just in time. “Engine loss,” he says, and Bucky nods. “We need to move faster.”

“Yeah,” Clint starts to agree, and then there’s an even bigger, nastier lurch. It reminds Clint of the time he was on a boat in a storm, trying to escape some drug runners in Libya. The waves had been _enormous_ , tossing him around like laundry in a dryer.

The carrier lists hard enough to send them all sprawling. Then there’s a horrible noise, like metal shredding, and Clint looks up in time to see the ceiling splintering.

“ _Move!_ ” he screams. He rolls one way, having just enough sense to cover his head and curl into a ball. His ribs feel like they’re on _fire_ , and a piece of shrapnel embeds itself in his thigh, but he otherwise manages to get himself mostly out of the way unscathed.

Things settle for a moment, and Clint uncurls, lifting his head to look. There’s a mountain of metal and pipes and sparking electrical wires where he was a moment ago, all of it looking sharp and deadly and very unclimbable.

“Bucky!” he yells, coughing and climbing to his feet. “ _Bucky!_ ”

“Clint!” comes the answering shout from the other side of the rubble. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” he yells back, yanking the shrapnel out of his leg. It hurts, but he’s had worse. It’s not bleeding that badly.

“Can you get through?”

He doesn’t even have to look. “No! I’ll go around, I’ll meet you in the cargo bay!”

“No, I can—”

“There’s no time, Buck!”

There’s a hesitation, and then a sound like someone’s climbing up the other side. “Take these,” Bucky yells, and shoves his bow and quiver through a small gap. “You run into _anyone_ , you put a goddamn arrow in their eye. Got it?”

“Got it,” Clint says, grabbing them. There’s just enough room for him to see Bucky’s eyes, blue and terrified. “The others okay?”

He nods. “They’re fine. Go!”

Clint holds his gaze a second more, then slings the quiver on and opens up the bow. He nocks an arrow and moves down the hallway, ready for anything. He doesn’t believe for half a second that pillar took out Rumlow. The fucker’s practically invincible, he’s gonna pop out around a corner any second and nail Clint with some kinda drugs, tie him up and drag him off to some fucking sex dungeon—

“No,” he says firmly. “No. It’s over. You’re all getting off this stupid thing. You’re gonna take down Hydra, have a nice steak dinner or something, and then go to bed and sleep for a million years.”

He doesn’t really believe it, but he feels better for saying it out loud. And one way or another, things _are_ ending today. Clint’s not sure if he’s going to finish the day out alive, but he sure as _fuck_ isn’t going to finish it in Rumlow’s hands. That’s for damn sure.

His backtracking takes him by the infirmary, and he slips in. The place is empty, everyone busy heading for the lifeboats. It only takes him a second to find the painkillers, and he jams one into his arm, hissing at the sharp sting. “God, _finally_ ,” he mutters, as the pain ebbs into something more manageable, and he’s finally able take a deep breath for the first time in what feels like hours.

Clint drops the needle as the carrier rolls under his feet, and he grabs a table for support before making his way back into the hall. “You can do this,” he mutters. “Step one, get to the bike. Step two, steak dinner.”

Manageable goals.

The carrier is pitching and rolling more fiercely, and there’s a swooping sensation in his stomach that says they’re starting to go down. Best guess, he has less than five minutes. The safety features on the helicarriers are insane, but they’re intended to keep the thing up long enough to get people off, and that’s about it. He needs to get to the Skycycle.

He doesn’t see anyone else in the hallway now, which he’s glad for. It makes it easier for him to pick his way around the debris, and also means that everyone’s made it off. Clint knows, objectively, that most of them are probably Hydra, but if it means the few good guys are saved...then so be it.

Clint rounds the next corner. He’s already on high alert, paranoia and danger instincts high. So when the back of his neck prickles, and the voice in the back of his head tells him to duck, he immediately drops to the ground, turning and drawing back on the bow in one smooth movement.

Just in time, too, because a chunk of metal slams into the wall where his head was two seconds ago, and he whips around to see Rumlow standing on the other end of the hallway.

Clint immediately looses the arrow, but Rumlow’s already moving, ducking behind a door hanging half off its hinges. The arrow misses him by _that_ much, and Clint scowls, grabbing another one. “You really don’t give up, do you?” he yells down the hall, tucking himself around the edge of the corner. There’s a window to his left, and he can see the edge of the DC skyline through it, precariously angled. Whatever he’s gonna do, he’s gotta do it quick.

“Could say the same about you,” Rumlow calls back. “You know I’m gonna find you wherever you go, right?”

_Not if I kill you, you won’t._

Clint shoves aside his doubts about whether or not Rumlow really _can_ be killed— _he’s just a guy, Hawkeye, he’s not invincible_ —and sticks the arrow back in his quiver. One of these is explosive, he could blow Rumlow into itty-bitty little pieces—

Something rolls down the hallway. Clint looks at it, and then he’s moving again, scrambling backwards, ducking to cover his head before his conscious brain really even registers the flash-bang grenade coming at him.

He’s ready for it when it goes off, but it still jars him, makes his ears ring and his vision wobble. He’s dizzy, too, when he gets back to his feet, hand sliding around the wall to keep him upright. It’s in that moment of weakness that something grabs him, a familiar set of hands suddenly sliding over his skin.

“No,” Clint says, trying to shake off the dizziness, but it doesn’t matter. It never fucking matters. He’s been saying no this whole time, and it’s never made a goddamn bit of difference.

Rumlow strips him of his bow and quiver, easy as anything, then reaches for his wrists. “I’m done,” he snarls in Clint’s ear. “I’ve fucking had it with you. Enjoy these last moments, sweetheart, because this is the last time you’re gonna see daylight for the next year—”

The moment he starts to push the cuffs together, something in Clint just _snaps_. He doesn’t know if it’s his temper, or his sanity, or the last shreds of hope he’s still clinging to. He doesn’t care, honestly. He’s so fucking done with this. With all of this. Doesn’t even care if it kills him, at this point. He’d rather go down with this ship than spend another second under Rumlow’s thumb.

He slams his head forward, right into Rumlow’s nose, and _feels_ more than hears the bone snapping. Rumlow lets out a pained shout and staggers backwards, hand going to his face. “You—”

Clint kicks him. Snaps up his leg and nails him in the groin, putting all his force into it. There’s something eminently satisfying about it, doing the thing that he’s been dreaming about for _months_. Rumlow chokes, doubling over, and Clint shoves him hard, sending him sprawling backwards. Then he turns, searching for his bow. _There_ , just a few feet away—

Rumlow grabs his leg, like they’re in a fucking zombie movie, and Clint trips. He puts his hands out to catch himself, then remembers at the last second that one of them is broken. He takes the impact fall on his good hand and elbows instead, which makes his entire chest feel like it’s on fire. Some kind of noise escapes him—he’s not sure what—and he flips over, yanking his foot out of Rumlow’s grip before aiming a kick at his face again.

“You little _bastard_ ,” Rumlow snarls, face covered in blood. He ducks the kick, grabbing Clint’s leg again and yanking him backwards. “I’m going to—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clint snarls back, reaching for something, anything, to make him let go. His hand lands on a loose piece of pipe, and he whips it around, aiming it at Rumlow’s hand. There’s another crack on contact, and he sees Rumlow’s face contort in pain. “Yeah, doesn’t feel good when someone _breaks your fucking hand,_ does it?”

He doesn’t give Rumlow a chance to respond. He pulls his foot free and scrambles out of reach. If he can just get to his bow—

His fingers have barely closed on the end of it before Rumlow grabs him again, dragging him away from it. “Gonna fucking kill you,” he growls. He looks unhinged, now, wild and desperate. There’s a manic light in his eyes like Clint’s never seen before, and for the first time, Clint actually thinks he might.

He manages to free himself again. He doesn’t bother going for his bow this time, though, just launches himself onto Rumlow with a ragged yell, punching with his good hand. Rumlow blocks it, twisting Clint’s wrist and using it as leverage to force him off. He rolls on top, furious and pins Clint’s hands to the floor. “Knock it off, puppy. It’s over.”

“That’s not my fucking name,” Clint growls.

“Yeah, it is.” Rumlow smirks at him. “By the time I’m done with you—”

The carrier pitches to the right, deck tilting enough that they actually start sliding down the hallway. Rumlow lets go of Clint to try and get his balance, and Clint immediately rolls out from under him, all the way to the other side of the hallway. It hurts like a _bitch_ , but it puts enough distance between him and Rumlow that he dodges the swiping hand reaching for him.

Clint lets himself slide down the corridor, moving with the tilting deck. There’s an enormous roar from outside, which he assumes is the engine trying to compensate for the sudden tilt. The deck levels out a little and he scrambles up to his feet. His bow is right fucking _there—_

A gunshot echoes behind him. There’s a burst of pain in his left calf, making him stumble, but he doesn’t stop. Not this time. He can’t.

“Barton!” Rumlow yells, and he hears the sound of a magazine slamming into place—

Clint dives for it. It _hurts_ , the pain like a jolt of electricity through his nerves, whiting out his vision, but his fingers close around the bow, his other hand reaching out for an arrow. He nocks it even as he’s turning, spinning to face Rumlow. He gauges the distance. The movement. The tilt of the ship. The angle he’s firing at. Calculations and numbers race through his mind at lightning speed, so fast that he can’t consciously process them. He just _knows_ , and his body moves without instruction, following the familiar steps—

_The wire tenses._

_Back muscles tighten._

_Slow your breathing._

_Exhale._

_Relax your hand—_

The arrow flies through the air. Clint feels like it should be in slow motion, this part. Just him and Rumlow, eyes locked, bodies tense, frozen in this moment forever.

But then it’s over. One second he’s letting go, and the next second Rumlow is collapsing, gaze going blank as he hits the floor of the carrier, an arrow neatly lodged between his eyes.

“Told you I’d aim for the head,” Clint says, lowering his bow.

His quiver is next to him. He picks it up, slings it on with shaking hands. There’s seven regular arrows in there, and he uses all of them, loosing them methodically one by one into Rumlow’s body. He’s dead—Clint knows he’s dead—but every shot makes him feel better. He’d do this a hundred times if he could, a thousand times, one arrow for every time Rumlow made him feel like something less than what he is.

Then the carrier lurches, dropping underneath him, and reality reasserts itself. Clint lowers his bow and slings it over his shoulder. He needs to go. Needs to leave, _now_. It might already be too late.

But first—

He leans down, grabs that stupid tac vest that he hates so much, and drags him to a series of panel windows at the end of the hallway. They’re already shattered, wind rushing through them into his hair, smelling of smoke and burnt metal. 

Clint looks down at Rumlow. He feels like he should say something. Mark the occasion with a momentous speech about freedom and personal choices and not owning someone.

In the end, he decides it’s not worth it. Not worth spending another second of his life on this man. “Fuck you,” he says to Rumlow’s lifeless body, and kicks it out the window.

Then he turns down the hallway, moving as fast as he can. Which, admittedly, is not very fast, but he does his best. There’s still an insane amount of adrenaline blaring through him—the crash on this is going to be _spectacular_ —and it helps with the pain.

“He’s dead,” he mumbles through numb lips, hands tightly clutching his bow. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.”

He’ll need to process later, Clint knows. When they’re safe, and out of here, and he’s in Bucky’s arms. He’ll need to sort through his feelings, and actually think about what happened to him. Deal with the months and months of repression, and anger, and denial. Deal with everything Rumlow did to him.

But not now. He can’t do it now. He has to get to Bucky and the others. Get on the bike. Get off the carrier.

Clint’s focusing so hard on the task that he’s almost shocked when he gets to the cargo bay. Pretty much everything is on fire, but he manages to make his way over to where he and Bucky landed the bike.

“Clint!” Bucky appears out of nowhere to grab him as he stumbles. “What happened?”

“I killed Rumlow,” Clint says. “He shot me.” He staggers a bit, his vision fuzzing around the edges. Fuck. He’s going to pass out.

Bucky grabs him. “Come on,” he says. “On the bike with Rhodes, Steve and I’ll get a jet.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just drags him over to the bike, setting him on it. “Hold onto Rhodes,” he orders Clint. “We’ll meet you down there.”

“Kay,” Clint says. “Be careful.”

“You too,” Bucky says, and kisses him before stepping back. “Go. Both of you. Go.”

Rhodes kicks the bike on, and it lifts up in the air. Clint just clings to him, forcing himself to stay awake and hold on. If he falls off this Skycycle, there’s going to be no magic bird man to save him this time.

Bucky turns to Steve. “Jet,” he says, pointing at the one across the room—the only one that isn’t on fire or otherwise destroyed. “Now.”

Steve starts running towards it, Bucky right behind them. Clint holds onto Rhodes and turns his head, keeping a careful eye on the two of them. The helicarrier is definitely falling now, things tumbling and tilting downward, but they’re so close—

They’re _so_ close.

_We’re gonna make it,_ he thinks, a fluttering of hope in his chest. _We’re gonna make it—_

He sees the explosion before he hears it. A blast of red and yellow, a fireball blooming outwards. Rhodes yells and yanks the Skycycle to the side, nearly throwing Clint off. He starts to slip off the bike, arms and legs clinging on for dear life. “ _Rhodes_!”

Rhodey rights them and shoves Clint back into his seat. The hand pressing into his ribs make him black out for a moment, the pain overwhelming everything. By the time he gets himself back together, they’re outside, moving away from the helicarrier. Clint forces his eyes open, blinking spots out of his vision. He’s not going to last much longer, but he needs to know—he _needs_ to—

“Did they make it out?” he yells, craning his neck to see a plane, or a jet, or a fucking parachute. Anything. _Anything_.

“I don’t know!” Rhodes yells back. “I didn’t see!”

Clint shakes his head—in denial or to clear his vision, he doesn’t know. “We need to go back!”

“We can’t!”

“We have to! I have to save him—” He reaches for the handlebars, intending to grab them, turn them, make Rhodes drive back—

His whole body flares with pain, and he gags, the sharpness of it sending nausea clawing at him. The darkness returns, insistent and encompassing, and he knows this is it.

“We have to go,” he manages one more time, and then he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/) Also fun fact: I'm participating in the Marvel Trumps Hate auction this year! You can find a link to the bidding on my tumblr, or feel free to contact me and I can DM it to you! You can find all my various contacts in my profile <3 
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He starts spending those nights in the kitchen, shotgunning cups of coffee and combing through news and SHIELD reports for any potential signs of Bucky or Steve. He knows they’re out there somewhere—no bodies were found in the river, or in the surrounding area. Clint doesn’t know where he is, or why he hasn’t come back, but he knows at least they’re not dead.
> 
> He clings to that fact like it’s the last thing he’s got. Bucky’s not dead. He’s _not_.

_The smile is what haunts him. Wide and knowing, tinged with superiority, with a hint of malice and a dash of smugness. It’s a recipe for danger, that smile, and Clint knows when he sees it that he’s in trouble._

_But he can fight back, this time. He has his bow—_

_He had his—_

_Where is his bow?_

_He looks down at his empty hands, then up at Rumlow. That smile is in place, that terrible smile, and he’s holding the bow in his hands like it’s always belonged there._

_“That’s mine,” Clint says. “You—_

“—know how long it’s been?”

“A week, now.”

“Are they going to wake him up?”

“They want to wait so they can—”

_—see the ceiling above him, familiar in its blandness. He’s in Rumlow’s bedroom, on his bed. There’s no chains on him, this time, nothing restraining him. He’s just laying there, watching the possessive dance of Rumlow’s fingers as they caress the curve of his hipbone._

_Push him off, some little voice screams, but Clint doesn’t. He never does._

_“This is mine,” Rumlow whispers in his ear. “You’re mine.”_

_“I know,” Clint whispers back, and the worst part is, he does. No matter what happens, there will always be a part of him here, left in this bed, holding still under Rumlow’s touch._

_“Even if you get away,” Rumlow says, echoing his thoughts. “You’ll still be here.”_

_“I know,” Clint says again. These fingerprints are marked on him forever, indelible memories etched into his soul._

_There was someone else, he thinks. Kind blue eyes and a smile he’d do anything for. A silver hand, surprisingly gentle for all the strength it possessed, and a—_

_“Where is he?” Clint asks._

_The fingers still. “Where is who?”_

_“Where is Bucky?”_

_A laugh, low and tinged with condescension. “Who the hell is Bucky?”_

_“He—” Clint stops. He can’t remember. “He cared about me.”_

_“No one cares about you,” comes the answer, and then Rumlow is on top of him, pressing his wrists into the bed. “No one but me.”_

_“But he—” Clint thinks of stubble-rough kisses, an embrace strong enough to keep him together, a feeling of security and stable ground that he hasn’t felt in years. Bucky wouldn’t have stuck around if he didn’t care._

_Right?_

_“But I know him.”_

_“Do you?” Rumlow asks with a smirk, and suddenly there’s an undercurrent of doubt, of fear, of— “Do you really know him?”_

_“Yes,” Clint insists, stubborn._

_“Do you know he left you?”_

_“He—“ Clint shakes his head. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t.”_

_“Died on that helicarrier,” Rumlow says, leaning down to mouth at Clint’s pulse. He scrapes his teeth over it, a wordless threat.”You’re mine, now.”_

_“But you died too,” Clint says. “I—I saw you. I killed you.” Fear starts to trickle into his veins. “We blew up the helicarrier—I killed you—”_

_That smile, that dangerous, predatory smile, promising blood and terror and fury. “Are you sure?”_

_“I—”_

“—haven’t seen him. Or Rogers.”

“No one has, sir.”

“Keep a guard on the door. If he’s alive, he’ll come back for Barton.”

“Are you sure? _If_ he’s alive, then it’s more likely he and Rogers are probably hiding—”

_—in an old hotel room, cheap beer in one hand and a future in the other—_

_“I think I love you.”_

_The words warm Clint more than the alcohol, but this—_

_“This is a dream,” he says, looking at his calloused hands. “Right?”_

_“Dreams are just memories that haven’t happened yet,” Bucky says, and that shouldn’t make sense, but it does. “Do you want this to happen?”_

_Clint nods. “More than anything.” He tips the beer into his mouth, doesn’t taste a swallow of it. “But you left me.”_

_Bucky tilts his head. “Who told you that?”_

_“Rumlow.”_

_A ghost of a smile. “You believe him?”_

_“I—” Clint looks at the beer. “I don’t know.” He blinks. “Are you there? Where I am?”_

_“No,” Bucky says. “Not right now.”_

_“Are you dead?”_

_Bucky offers him a slight smile. “I don’t know.”_

_“How do you not know?”_

_“This is your dream, Clint. You’re sleeping—”_

“—for a few more hours, and then he’ll wake up naturally.”

“Still no word on Barnes?”

“No.”

“We need to find him. Both of them.”

“I don’t know where to start, Natasha. We already dredged the river, I’m trying—“

_—to pretend he’s somewhere else, even for a moment. Clint watches the traffic pass below him and remembers sitting behind the wheel of a car, the freedom of being able to drive himself around. Remembers what it was like to live unencumbered by silver cuffs and watchful eyes._

_He’s starting to forget that, he thinks, and he hates it. Hates how Rumlow is slowly prying away his sense of self, taking it bit by bit, like scraping paint off a wall—_

_“They took things from me too,” he says, but he’s not sure where it came from, the sentence familiar and foreign at the same time. Did he say that, or did someone else?_

_“Who took things?” Rumlow asks from across the room._

_“You did,” Clint says, looking at him. “You took—you took everything from me.”_

_“No, I didn’t,” Rumlow murmurs, eyes sympathetic. “You gave it to me, remember?”_

_“You took it,” Clint repeats. “You reached into my life and you just—”_

_“You let me.” And then he’s right there in Clint’s face, a smirk curving at his lips as his hands settle on Clint’s waist. “You wanted me to. You just let me have it, didn’t even put up a fight—”_

_“I said no—”_

_“You’re mine,” Rumlow says. He winds his fingers into Clint’s hair, pulls back to expose his throat. “You’re all mine, sweetheart. Just open your eyes and see that.” He gets closer, his voice harsher. “Open your eyes, dammit, just—”_

“—open your eyes, Barton, come on.”

The dream fades, leaving nothing but a vague sense of panic behind. Clint groans softly, shifting in his—

Hospital bed?

He forces his eyes open, the sharp smell of antiseptic making him wince. “Where—” he starts, then trails off in a dry cough.

Natasha’s face appears in front him. “Hey,” she says, eyes creased with concern. “Clint.”

“Tasha,” he whispers. He’d touch her face if he could raise his arm. “Wh—”

“You’re in the hospital,” she says, already knowing the question. “A real hospital, not SHIELD medical. You passed out after getting off the helicarrier. Rhodey was able to get you down to the ground.” She offers him an ice chip, and he gratefully accepts it, letting it moisten the desert in his mouth.

He licks his dry lips. “How...long?”

“Nine days. They put you in a medically induced coma. You were in bad shape. I had several doctors tell me you shouldn’t be alive, let alone standing and fighting.”

Clint huffs out a tiny laugh. “Story...of my life.”

“Yes.” Her fingers wind into his, and he manages a weak squeeze. “You’re still in bad shape, but you’re no longer in immediate danger of dying.”

“Bucky?”

He knows the answer before she says it, half-remembered words and dreams drifting into his mind. “No one’s seen him.”

“Steve?”

“They’re both missing.” She hesitates, then adds, “And presumed dead.”

Clint shakes his head immediately. He regrets it a second later, dizziness overwhelming him, but he repeats the gesture anyway. “No. They’re not dead.”

“Clint—”

“They’re _not_ ,” he insists, coughing again. “They—I’d know.”

Which is stupid to say—how the hell would he know that—but she doesn’t call him on it. She just nods and offers him another ice chip. “Fury’s back in his office.”

“SHIELD?”

“Rebuilding.” She gives him another one.

“I killed Rumlow,” Clint says. Her hand pauses in the container, but she doesn’t make a comment on it. Just waits for him to continue. “I—he came after me in the carrier—tracker in my arm—”

“That’s out,” she says. “Surgery removed it.”

Clint lets out a relieved breath. “I killed him. Arrow to the head. And then seven more. To be sure.” He twists the sheet in his hands, trying not to think of his dream. “I had to be sure.”

“They found his body,” she says, and he snaps his eyes to hers. “They’ve been dredging the wreckage in the Potomac. They’ve found a lot of bodies.”

“They...”

“SHIELD. CIA. FBI. All the alphabet soup agencies.” She puts her hand over his. “He’s dead. I saw.”

“He’s dead,” Clint repeats, and he _knew_ that, but it’s relieving to hear it from her anyway. Like an ache he’s only noticing as it ebbs away. “Okay. Good. He’s dead. Right. Okay.”

“Clint,” Nat murmurs.

“I’m fine.” He shivers. “I’m fine. He’s dead. I killed him.”

She’s watching him intently. He still can’t read her expression. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to again.

“Tell me the rest,” he says, taking another ice chip, but then they’re interrupted by a slew of doctors coming into the room, all of whom talk too much and tell him too little. He gets the gist of it—bullet wounds, broken ribs, broken hand, broken foot, and also a cracked orbital bone, apparently. He’s dehydrated, a little starved, and there’s unusual drugs in his bloodstream, although they look to be clearing out.

They keep going, but Clint tunes them out at some point, fixing his gaze on the wall at a point above their head and waiting for them to leave. His skin is crawling, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because most of the doctors are men, and the way they’re crowded around his bed makes him feel like they’re about to—

“That’s enough,” Nat says. He might not be able to read her, but that apparently doesn’t go the other way, because her tone takes on a sharp edge. “We get the picture. Let him rest.”

The doctors make token protests, but even when Nat’s not quite herself, she’s still Nat, and she makes them leave with nothing more than her narrow-eyed gaze. Clint loves her for it. She’s still in there, underneath all those new layers, and maybe someday they can get back to where they left off.

He catches the arm of one of them as they leave—a nice looking woman, the only one who’d smiled and treated him like a person instead of a walking wound—and tugs her closer. “Um...”

“Something I can get you?” she asks.

Clint flicks his eyes to Natasha, who quietly gets up. “I’ll get coffee,” she says, and presses a soft kiss to his forehead before leaving.

“Thank you,” he says, then turns back to the doctor. “I, uh...I need some testing.”

“For?”

“STDs,” he says, and his face is burning with shame. He knows he shouldn’t—it wasn’t his fault, what they did—but it’s still embarrassing to ask for. Still makes him feel like shit inside. “There was...there were a couple incidents recently. Not—they weren’t consensual.” 

He’s probably fine—Rumlow certainly dragged him to Medical enough—but he just wants to be sure. 

Her expression is understanding. “We can do that. Is there anything—”

He shakes his head. “I know who did it, and it’s not really a ‘’press charges’ kind of situation.” _It’s a murder-them-all-in-their-sleep-with-arrows situation._

“We can also offer trauma counseling—”

Clint flashes a bitter smile. “No offense, doctor, but on the list of traumas from the past week? That one’s pretty far down the list right now.” He gestures to his numerous injuries. “So thanks, but no.”

“It might do you good to speak with someone,” she says softly. “Your friend is tight-lipped, but we’ve been able to piece together some things. And I used to work for SHIELD, once upon a time. I’ve been hearing rumors for the past months about—”

“Thanks for your help,” Clint says, channeling his inner Natasha and offering her an icy cold stare. “I appreciate it.”

The doctor promises his test results in a few hours, and leaves without saying anything else. Natasha comes back, one coffee in hand, and steadfastly refuses every single one of his pleas to let him have some.

“Doctors said no caffeine,” she says, and maintains eye contact as she drinks. There’s a hint of a smile on her face, though, and Clint knows right then and there that they’ll be okay.

“They’re certified assholes,” he tells her, but she doesn’t give in. She _does_ relent and buys him a bagel from the cafeteria downstairs, probably more to cease his endless bitching than anything else. Clint hates hospitals, always has, and as much as he appreciates the help he’s getting, he’s itchy to get moving and get out of here.

Mostly, he’s itchy to find Bucky. Three more days pass, and despite every hope he’s got, Bucky doesn’t show up. Clint sees an endless parade of other people—Tony, Bruce, Rhodey, one or two other SHIELD agents. Even Hill makes an appearance, briefly popping in at three in the morning to tell Clint she’s got nets out for Bucky, but hasn’t heard anything yet. Natasha stays by his side the whole time, sleeping on the cot under the window when she gets tired. Clint doesn’t know if it’s for her benefit or for his, but he doesn’t turn her down.

They finally give him a clean bill of health and release him under strict orders not to do anything strenuous. They even make him take a wheelchair to the front doors, and Clint seriously contemplates popping a wheelie in it just to spite them all. But he doesn’t, because he’s an adult, and occasionally has the capacity for good behavior.

Also because Natasha narrows her eyes at him the moment he reaches for the wheels, and he’s still too newly-glued together to risk her wrath.

“Okay,” Natasha says, once they get outside and release him from the chair. She leads him to a sleek black car that he’s somewhat worried she stole. “Your place? Or the tower?”

“Tower,” Clint says. “If I go to my place, I’m just—” He trails off, thinking of his little kitchen, and can suddenly feel the phantom touches of Rumlow’s hands. “The tower is fine.”

He doesn’t go to his own rooms—those are ruined too, memories of Rumlow everywhere—but instead takes one of the guest wings. It’s not as extravagant as his own floor, but it’s more his style, anyway. There’s less room here, fewer doors to keep track of. Fewer exits and entrances. Not that he thinks Rumlow’s going to come busting through one of them, but it’s hard to convince his rational brain of anything when it’s one in the morning and he’s screaming himself awake from another nightmare.

He starts spending those nights in the kitchen, shotgunning cups of coffee and combing through news and SHIELD reports for any potential signs of Bucky or Steve. He knows they’re out there somewhere—no bodies were found in the river, or in the surrounding area. Clint doesn’t know _where_ he is, or why he hasn’t come back, but he knows at least they’re not dead.

He clings to that fact like it’s the last thing he’s got. Bucky’s not dead. He’s _not_. 

Sleepless nights or not, there’s still work to be done. Clint spends his days going back and forth between the Triskelion, and the tower, and the other places Fury sees fit to send him. He’s not cleared for mop-up work, not with his injuries, so mostly it’s a lot of talking to people—giving rundowns on what happened to SHIELD, spinning the cover story for the masses, and similar things. Things were apparently relatively normal the whole time Hydra was taking over—no major threats, no alien attacks, no nothing. The world functioned without the Avengers being front and center, and Clint—

Well, he’s not entirely sure how to feel about that. He’d thought they were doing important work, but if the world didn’t even miss them for almost six months...

“I don’t know,” Natasha says when he brings it up to her. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” he says. “I just...wanted to know I had purpose.”

She studies him for a moment, then says, “You saved people.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. You saved people. That’s a purpose.”

“But if it was a Hydra mission—”

“You’re going to drive yourself insane if you keep doing that,” she says, and he’s surprised to hear the fierce notes in her voice. “I mean it. You _helped_ people, Clint. Whether it was a Hydra mission or a SHIELD mission. There are people alive, who wouldn’t be otherwise. That’s on you.”

She puts her hand over his. “I thought I was doing good too,” she says. “When I joined SHIELD, I thought I was going straight.” A bitter smile creases her face. “Turns out I was just trading the KGB for Hydra.”

“You’re a good person too,” Clint says. “If I am, so are you.”

“Okay,” is all she says, and he’s not sure if she believes it or not.

He’s not entirely sure _he_ believes it, to be honest. Especially not when he wakes up from another nightmare, soaked in sweat and trembling. He sits up, trying to push away the memory of his mission with Rumlow, the way he’d just fired arrows where he was told without even _asking_ —

His phone buzzes, the screen flaring with brightness. Clint winces, fumbling for it. “Hello?”

“Clint?”

“Bucky!” Clint sits up, shoving aside the chilly fingers of his nightmare. “Bucky, what the hell—it’s been _two_ weeks, where the fuck are you?”

“Morocco.”

“What—” Clint rubs his eyes. “Why?”

“I’m with Steve.”

“Why?”

“Because he needs help.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry I left you,” Bucky says. “I’m _sorry_. But Steve needs me. We’re at a safe house by Tangier. I want you to come here. I’ll text you coordinates.”

“Why?”

“Why do I want you?”

“Why are you in Morocco? Why aren’t you here? What happened after the carrier blew up?”

Bucky’s voice sounds strained. “I can’t explain it all right now, Clint. Can you get here? Alone?”

“Yes.” He’s already up, hopping on one foot as he tries to pull on his pants and put his shoes on at the same time. He stumbles and nearly falls over, managing to catch himself on the table. “I can steal a plane or something, I’ll be right there—”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Bucky says. “Steve is...fragile right now. He needs things to be slow and I need a familiar face for him.” He pauses, then adds, “And I miss you. I—I’ve been thinking about you since I left.”

Clint awkwardly drags a shirt on. “Send me the coordinates.” He straightens it, then adds, “I miss you too.”

After Bucky hangs up, he texts Natasha. He doesn’t tell her much—just that he’s okay, and he’s leaving, and he’s not sure when he’ll be back. He hopes that’s enough. It has to be enough. She’ll know.

Clint takes a Quinjet, flying it all the way to Casablanca before ditching it near a SHIELD safe house. Two stolen cars and a taxi ride later, he pulls into what looks like an empty gas station. He shields his eyes against the setting sun and gets out of his car, leaving the keys in the ignition.

A few minutes later, a black SUV pulls in. Clint’s hand automatically goes to his gun, a thousand fears flooding him—

But then the door opens, and Bucky gets out, and it’s a light shining into the darkness. He feels the tension melt away from him, draining off his shoulders, and he sags against the car in relief. He _knew_ Bucky wasn’t dead, he _knew_ it, but just to see him—

Bucky apparently feels the same way. He strides across the ground between them, covering it in five long steps, and wraps Clint in a hug tight enough to knock the wind from him. “You’re okay,” he breathes.

“Ribs,” Clint wheezes, and Bucky immediately lets go, looking chagrined. “Mostly okay.”

“I know, I just—” Bucky hugs him again, softer this time. “I was worried. About you.”

“You’re the one who disappeared off the face of the earth for two weeks!”

“I stayed long enough to make sure you got to a hospital,” Bucky says, sounding a little hurt. “And I knew your friends would take care of you. But Steve—” He glances over his shoulder into the car. “He barely knows anything right now, and I just—I needed to help him.”

“I understand,” Clint says. “I mean—I’m pissed as _hell_ , but I understand.” He pulls back a little, and Bucky lets him go. “Is he—is Steve in there?”

Bucky nods. “I can’t really leave him alone. He gets...stabby.”

Clint fights back a laugh. “You didn’t get stabby.”

“I had you,” Bucky says simply, and tugs him into a kiss. It’s sweet, and it’s perfect, and as soon as their lips touch, Clint feels whole again. “You helped. I’m just trying to do the same thing for him.” He looks into the car again. “We were friends, once, I think.”

“You were.”

“It’s helping me too,” Bucky says. “Being around him. But I missed you. I’m—it _killed_ me to leave you, Clint, I need you to know that.”

“Why didn’t you bring him in?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He doesn’t need doctors and people trying to pry into his head. He doesn’t need hospital rooms and people trying to deprogram him. He needs someone who _understands_.”

“And you think I can help?”

“I don’t know if you can,” Bucky says. “But I know you helped _me_. And I also thought that after seventy years of bullshit, I’m entitled to a little happiness.” He cups Clint’s face in his hand. “You make me happy. I like you.”

“I know,” Clint says, unable to hold back his smile. “I’m on your list.”

“Fuck yeah you are,” Bucky says, and kisses him again.

Clint grabs his stuff, and they get in Bucky’s car. Steve eyes Clint from the backseat. “Barton?”

“It’s good to see you, Steve.” 

“I know you,” Steve says, and Clint smiles. “We...worked together?”

“We did,” he confirms. “For a long time. You led the Avengers. You were a good leader.”

Steve frowns, then rubs his forehead. “I don’t really remember.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, turning to face him. “You don’t have to. But Clint is here to help you, just like I am. Okay?”

Steve nods, and Bucky turns back around. He starts the car, then carefully eases them out of the parking lot. His driving is noticeably better this time around, a lot less wild, and he grins when Clint points that out to him, saying, “Steve gets carsick.” Which is not something Clint knew, and he’s mildly amused by.

“How’d you end up in Morocco?”

“I worked a job here, I think,” Bucky says. “I remembered…I remembered standing on the beach and looking at a house. There were people inside, eating dinner, and they looked happy and _safe_ —”

“You found that house again?”

“No. I don’t remember the specifics of it. I just remember the feeling.” At Clint’s look, he adds, “It’s an unoccupied beach house, and it’s safe. I made sure of it.”

“It’s safe,” Steve agrees quietly.

Clint taps his fingers on his knee. “So what have you been doing? What happened after the carrier blew up?”

“We fell in the river,” Bucky says. “I got knocked out. Steve saved me, he pulled me out of the water. After I woke up, we were going to go to SHIELD—and then we ran into a group of Hydra agents. They tried trigger words on _him_ , tried to take us both in.”

“So you kicked ass and left?”

“Essentially.” Bucky sighs. “Like I said, I stuck around to make sure you were okay—I even snuck in to see you, but you were unconscious, and I couldn’t wake you up. So I figured out a way to contact you when you _did_ wake up, and then I took Steve, and we left.” He grips the wheel tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you.”

“SHIELD would’ve helped,” Clint says. “With Steve, and you.”

“Maybe. But once the dust settled...” He shrugs. “I did a lot of not good things as the Soldier. Some of them actively working against SHIELD. They sent me to kill Fury, remember? And I just...I didn’t want to end up in a cell, locked away where I couldn’t help anyone. And Steve doesn’t deserve that either. He needs time to recover.” Bucky reaches over, winds his fingers into Clint’s. “You deserve that too.”

“We all do,” Clint says, squeezing his hand.

They’re quiet the rest of the way, until Bucky pulls into a small driveway. The house looks like something out of a vacation pamphlet—two levels, painted white and blue, a brilliant, shimmering glimpse of the sea just visible behind the gate.

Bucky murmurs something to Steve as they get out, and he nods, glancing at Clint before going into the house. Then Bucky takes Clint’s hand and leads him around the house, through the gate, and onto a stretch of white sand.

“Beaches,” Clint says, thinking of their conversation in the plane, and Bucky nods.

“I thought it would be a good place,” he says. “It’s quiet. Not far from town. Sunshine and fresh air, and it’s far away from SHIELD and Hydra both.”

“You know they can find us if they really want to.”

“Probably,” Bucky says, getting out of the car. “But they haven’t yet, and every day they don’t is a chance to get Steve back on track. To get _us_ back on track.”

He takes Clint all the way down to the water’s edge before stopping, staring out at the waves with an expression Clint can’t really read. Clint bumps his shoulder, and Bucky blinks slowly, then puts an arm around him, drawing him in. Something clicks into place inside him—a sense of rightness, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

“How long do you plan on staying here?” Clint asks, leaning against him.

“I don’t know,” Bucky sighs. “Not forever, as much as I wish we could. But...at least a little bit.” He looks over at Clint. “A chance to breathe. Like you said.”

Clint thinks of all the work they have to do. All the rebuilding, and hunting down Hydra, and putting the world back together. They should be there. They should be helping.

But then he thinks of the months with Rumlow, the constant terror and the anxiety and the way he’d started to lose himself. He thinks of the stress, and the torture, and all the other things he’s had to endure.

_Doesn’t matter what happened to you_ , some little part of him argues. _There’s work to be done._

_Yeah_ , he argues back. _And I’ll do it. But Bucky’s right. We’re entitled to a little happiness. Even if it’s just for a few days. Just a chance to breathe. The world fucking owes us that._

“Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “That sounds...really good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!
> 
> ETA: [sunny-kimmy56](https://sunny-kimmy56.tumblr.com/) commissioned [this AMAZING art for me!](https://sunny-kimmy56.tumblr.com/post/632976579727933441/hey-feedmecookiesnow-i-got-this-art-commission)
> 
> The artist is [kingbirdkathy](https://kingbirdkathy.tumblr.com/) and they are seriously SO talented. Thank you so much for this!!


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days blend together after that. Clint doesn’t bother to keep track. He knows, objectively, that there’s things happening in the world—things he should probably be a part of. But every time he thinks about going back, or calling SHIELD, or stepping back into the game, he just...doesn’t.
> 
> _Time_ , he thinks, tossing a pebble into the ocean. _You need time._

He calls Natasha that first night. He expects her to be mad that he left, or at the very least, a little irritated. But when he tells her where he is and why, there’s an unexpected amount of sympathy in her voice.

“Good,” she says. “You deserve some time.”

“I’m sorry.” He stares out at the ocean, watching the waves crash on the beach. “I know we should be helping. I just...you’re right. I need time.”

“We’re out of leads for the moment. They’re scattered, and they’re hiding, and we just don’t have the resources in place to fully track them. Not yet. I’ve helped pick off a few stray cells, but the rest...we just can’t do anything about. So honestly, this is the best time. And Barnes is right—Steve doesn’t need hospitals and doctors. He needs people who understand. He needs you two.”

“You could come,” he says. “There’s room here for you.”

And he knows she actually considers for a moment, because there’s a thoughtful silence on the other end before she says, “I just might do that.”

“Let me know,” Clint says. “You deserve time too.”

Another thoughtful silence, and then she says, “I’ll call if I need you.”

“Okay.” That’s probably the most he’s going to get out of her right now. They still haven’t really talked about what happened to them—either of them—and he’s not entirely sure if they ever will. They deal with things differently, and at this point, he doesn’t really know how to help her anymore.

But there’s nothing he can do over the phone, anyway. This is something that needs to happen in person. So he trades a few more short words with her, then hangs up, tucking the phone into his pocket.

Bucky is waiting for him on the deck. Clint climbs the stairs, feeling tired and heavy, and flops down in a chair next to him. “Nat,” he says by way of explanation.

“You tell her where we are?”

He nods.

“She coming too?”

“She might.” He holds Bucky’s gaze, unsure how he’s going to react.

Bucky just nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

A shrug. “I think if we both want you in our lives, we’re going to have to learn to live with each other.” He sighs. “I don’t think forgiveness is in the cards, and I wouldn’t ever ask for it. But I think we can learn to be around each other.” His eyes land on Clint’s. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” Clint says. “Or, at least, I think I could be.” He looks out at the ocean, watching the waves crash onto the beach.

Bucky hums quietly. “What happened with Rumlow?”

“I killed him,” Clint says, eyes on the water. “I ran into him on the helicarrier and I put an arrow between his eyes like I promised I would at the beginning.” His voice is steady, but he can taste the anger building in him. The months of rage. It’s just there, simmering below the surface, and he—

“Clint,” Bucky says softly, and Clint blinks.

“Sorry.” He rubs his eyes. “Long day. I think I just...I need to sleep.”

Bucky nods. “I can show you the house,” he says, and leads Clint inside. The house—more of a cottage, really—is small, and kind of cute. There’s a little kitchen, and a small living room with a fireplace and some cozy couches. Two laptops sit on the coffee table, plugged in to a nearby outlet. 

“We’ve mostly been out here,” Bucky says. “Looking at stuff. Pictures of you guys, and catching up on news, and trying to piece together our history. Which is fun, since neither of us remember much. We’re getting there, though.” He gestures. “Bedrooms back here.”

Clint follows him down the hallway. There’s three rooms back here, one with the door already closed—Steve’s, then—and one that looks untouched.

“There’s a spare bedroom there,” Bucky says, nodding at it. “There’s more blankets in the closet, and I can get a pillow from the couch if you need more. Or...”

He lets the statement hang in the air, open-ended, and leans against the wall to his room.

“Or...” Clint says.

“Or...you can sleep with me. If you want.” He tilts his head at the other room. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to. You don’t. I know we did—” He stops, sighing, and rubs his chin. “I know we did before, but I just...you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to.” Clint reaches out and takes his hand, winding their fingers together. “You’re not him, Bucky. I told you—I feel safe with you.” He tugs Bucky a little closer, suddenly desperate to kiss away the uncertainty on his face. “I’ve been alone in a bed for two weeks, and I just—”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, following the pull of his hand. “I didn’t want to—”

“I _know_ you didn’t,” Clint interrupts. “I told you I understand. But I’ve spent the last two weeks wishing I could wake up next to you.” He brings Bucky closer, until his own back is pressed against the opposite wall. “Okay? So let me have this. I want this. I want _you_.”

A smile blooms across Bucky’s face, that perfect, sunrise smile, and Clint pulls him into a kiss. It’s a reassurance they both need, their bodies relaxing against each other, all traces of tension melting away. Bucky picks him up then, hands sliding under Clint’s legs and lifting him into the air like he doesn’t weigh a damn thing. Clint yelps in surprise, clinging to him as his sense of balance is suddenly thrown off. It’s like the train all over again, and he can’t help but laugh. “Jesus,” he says, mouth only centimeters from Bucky’s. “You’re strong.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, turning to carry him into his room— _their_ room. “I know.”

They tumble onto the bed, and Clint waits for the memories to rear their head, waits to feel Rumlow’s hands against his skin. Waits to hear his voice, or his words, but it doesn’t come. There’s only Bucky in front of him, only Bucky’s voice and Bucky’s touch and Bucky’s mouth, silver fingers pressing his to the bed, blue eyes looking down at him with warmth and happiness, and it’s—

It’s perfect, really. It’s all the things he was hoping for during those endless months, before he even knew he could have it.

“I have a surprise,” Bucky says, a little out of breath. “If you want.”

“Yes,” Clint says immediately. “Of course.”

Bucky gets off the bed and disappears down the hallway. There’s a clattering and a clinking, and then he comes back a few minutes later with a glass in each hand. “I’ve never made margaritas,” he says, “but Steve tasted it for me and said it was alright. So I’m hoping these are okay.” He sets them down on the nightstand and goes back into the hallway, returning with two plates. “Also I don’t really know what tacos are supposed to taste like. But I figured we could try these? See what we like?”

He looks so hopeful, and so excited that Clint can’t help but grin at him. “I’ll try all the tacos with you,” he says, reaching for one of the plates. “We’ll figure it out together. Like we said we would.”

“Good,” Bucky says, sliding into bed. They figure out the best arrangement of plates and blankets and bodies. Bucky tucks an arm around him, drawing Clint against his side. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint murmurs, leaning his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s perfect.”

“One more thing.” Bucky leans over to the nightstand and picks up something—a TV remote. He turns the TV on. “Took me a while to figure this out, but here...” He trails off, then nudges Clint. “That’s James Bond, right? That one?”

“Oh my god,” Clint says, grabbing the remote. “I—yes, yes, that’s it. Are we—is this really happening?”

“Yep,” Bucky says, grinning down at him. “You said you had a drinking game, right?”

“Fuck yeah I do.” Clint scrambles for his phone, pulling up the rules. He explains them to Bucky, who looks increasingly skeptical as he goes on. “I’ll help you,” Clint assures him at the end of it. “Promise.”

“Alright,” Bucky says, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his head. The easy affection makes his heart tight in all the best ways. It’s so _different_ than Rumlow, all softness where he was hard edges and fierce lines. “Ready?”

It doesn’t take them long to finish the margaritas—this game is _brutal_ —but neither of them want to get up and get more, so they just stay where they are through the whole movie and into the next one.

“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?” he asks, halfway though the second movie, twisting to look up at Bucky. “You and me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, kissing his forehead. “I think we can get there.”

Clint falls asleep not too long after that, drifting off to the sound of bullets and explosions and James Bond being badass. He feels safe here, with Bucky holding onto him. Safe, and content, and for the moment, at peace.

And for the first time in a long time, his sleep is dreamless.

* * *

The days blend together after that. Clint doesn’t bother to keep track. He knows, objectively, that there’s things happening in the world—things he should probably be a part of. But every time he thinks about going back, or calling SHIELD, or stepping back into the game, he just...doesn’t.

_Time_ , he thinks, tossing a pebble into the ocean. _You need time_.

So he doesn’t call. He doesn’t watch the news. He occasionally checks his phone, keeping an eye on it in case Natasha calls, but otherwise, he just keeps himself in this little bubble of him and Bucky and Steve. It might be stupid, and he _knows_ it can’t last, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else. They all deserve this, right now. They all need this.

They spend their days doing other things. Clint discovers the wonders of Moroccan coffee—which he knew about before, but the authentic stuff is _significantly_ better—and he and Bucky take a whole day to wander the various coffee shops downtown, taste-testing and trying various types. It’s fun, and it’s wholesome, and it’s arguably the best date he’s ever been on.

Steve walks a lot, either through the house or on the beach. He doesn’t say much, just keeps moving, and occasionally asks Clint questions about their past. After a few days of this, Clint sits down across the kitchen table from him and says, “You need something to do.”

Steve studies him with a steady gaze. “Like?”

“Something. Anything. I don’t know. But you’re walking around like a ghost and it’s kinda freaking me out.”

“I don’t know what I like to do,” Steve murmurs, and a sad expression steals over his face. “I don’t—I’ve been trying to remember? But I don’t.”

Clint looks around the tiny kitchen, then leans over and plucks one of the cookbooks off the shelf. “Why don’t you make us dinner?”

Steve stares at it, then back at Clint. “Do I know how to cook?”

“Not really,” Clint admits. “Good time to learn, I guess?”

He picks up the cookbook, flipping through the pages. “Do we have money?”

“We do,” Clint says. “I’ve got a couple different bank accounts to burn through, we’re doing fine. Bucky and I can go buy you whatever you need.” He stands up. “Why don’t you make a list and give it to me?”

An hour later, Steve finds him on the beach and hands him a list of ingredients. Clint takes Bucky into town and they come back with armloads of groceries, which Steve immediately sets about putting away.

“This is good for him,” Bucky murmurs to Clint, watching. “A mission. Something concrete to do. It...it helps.”

Clint has no idea what Steve ends up making. He’s pretty sure it’s _supposed_ to be some kind of pasta. But Clint will eat anything and everything, and it’s worth choking down rubbery noodles to see Steve look more at peace than he has in days.

Bucky and Clint keep sleeping together. They talk again, about experiences and expectations, and Clint feels some of the weight lifting off him as he admits he’s still not ready for sex.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m—I wish I could tell you otherwise. I want to, _so_ badly. And it’s not you, it’s me, and I know that sounds cliche as hell but it’s the truth. I _know_ you’re different. I _know_ you’re not him. But knowing that here—” he gestures to his head “—isn’t the same as believing it.”

Bucky just winds a hand around his, tugging him closer in the bed. “That’s fine,” he murmurs, lips brushing over his forehead in a soft kiss. “I’m really—it’s okay, Clint. I don’t care if we never do that, or if we wait a year, or if we do it right now. I want you to be happy. I want you to be comfortable. I don’t care _how_ I get to be with you, I just want you. In whatever way you’ll let me.”

Clint nearly starts crying at that. It’s funny—all those months with Rumlow, all that cruelty, and he managed to keep himself together. Bucky says a few nice words to him, and he’s ready to crumble.

“You’re too good to me,” he says, tucking himself into Bucky’s arms.

“I’m really not,” Bucky says, a smile in his voice. “But as a smart guy once said, you’ve just got nothing except Hydra to compare me to. Any basic human decency is gonna seem nice after that.”

Clint grins, blinking a few times to clear his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Sounds like a real smart guy.” 

“He’s alright,” Bucky says, and kisses his forehead again. “Think I’ll keep him around.”

* * *

That’s not to say everything is perfect. Between the three of them, there’s enough bad memories and triggers to make living together something of a minefield. It’s not the massive explosion that Clint was expecting, but more like a series of small ones, interspersed between the three of them. Steve grabs Clint by the arm once, and Clint almost manages to drop him out of pure reflex. There’s the time Bucky nearly goes catatonic in the freezer section at the grocery store, eyes fixed on the ice covered shelves. Even Steve has his moments, like when Clint offers him a milkshake and he throws it against the wall, then storms out of the house and doesn’t come back for three hours.

“They fed us nutrition drinks,” Bucky says quietly when Clint asks him. “Slurry-looking, gross things. Nutritionally dense, absolutely disgusting. Looked like milkshakes.” He points. “Like that.”

“I didn’t know,” Clint says, just as quiet.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s looking at the mess on the wall, his fists clenched. “Well. Now you do.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Clint says, and gets a towel.

Then there’s the nightmares, which were bad before all of this happened, and are now worse. More often than not one of them screams the others awake, and after awhile, it becomes their new normal to gather in the kitchen and have midnight coffee. It’s probably not good for them, sleep-wise, but Clint would rather have a thousand cups of coffee than close his eyes and see Rumlow’s face anymore, and he can tell Steve and Bucky feel the same way.

So it’s not perfect. But it’s _better_ , and every time Clint stands on the beach and watches the sun rise, he can feel a little more of the stress and the tension and the fear drain out of him, no matter what happened the night before.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he says to the ocean, and while he doesn’t always _believe_ it, it gets easier and easier to say.

* * *

It’s been around three weeks, he thinks, when he gets the phone call. It’s a little after midnight, but he’s awake, sitting on the porch wrapped in a blanket. He’d woken up from another nightmare and managed to slip out of the room without disturbing Bucky, who was sleeping for the first time in a few days.

He’s staring at the dark ocean, trying to think of things other than Rumlow’s fingers sliding into him, when the phone in his hand suddenly buzzes with an unknown number. It’s probably Nat, and for half a second, he debates not answering. Just letting it ring out. She wouldn’t mind.

After a moment of indecision, he shakes his head and hits the button. “Hello?”

“Hi, Clint.”

“Hey, Tasha.” He tucks the blanket tighter around himself. “You okay?”

“Yes.” There’s a moment of silence, and then, “I was wondering if your offer was still open.”

Clint perks up. “To come here?”

“Yes.” She sounds tired. “There’s something I need to talk with you about. All three of you. And...it won’t be just me. Tony will come with too. We’ve been working on a way to get the cuffs off, and he thinks he’s figured it out.”

Clint straightens up, the blanket falling off his shoulders. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at his wrist, the moonlight glinting off the silver. He’d just assumed by this point he was either gonna have to wait for Thor to come back, or he was going to be stuck with them forever. Permanent reminders of Rumlow, forever attached to him.

But if they can come off...

“How soon can you get here?” he whispers.

“We can be there in a few hours, actually.”

Clint looks up at the darkened sky, then shakes his head. He’s waited this long, and both Steve and Bucky are sleeping for once. He’s not going to wake either of them up. “Tomorrow,” he says. “Afternoon. Give me time to warn the others.”

“Okay.”

“I’m glad you’re coming.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I miss you.” He pauses, then says, “Do you mind...will you be okay if Bucky’s around?”

Natasha sighs. “I’m...fine. There’s—neither of us had a choice in what happened to us, and he doesn’t even remember. I can’t promise I’m going to be his best friend, but if he makes you happy, then I can deal with it.”

“Natasha—”

“We’ll see you in the afternoon,” she says. “Have coffee ready for me?”

“Of course.” He grips the phone tighter, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Is there any chance you can pick something up for me?”

* * *

Bucky and Steve both wake up a few hours later, and Clint fills them in on what’s going on while they make pancakes. Steve studies him quietly for a moment, then nods. “I’d like to see them,” he says. “I have some questions.”

Bucky stabs at his plate. “Is Natasha okay with me being around?”

“She said she was,” Clint says, “which is probably the best you’re going to get out of her. She knows that neither of you had a choice in the matter.”

He nods. “Okay, then.”

All three of them stand on the back porch to watch the Quinjet land on the beach. Clint winds his fingers into Bucky’s as Natasha and Tony come out.

“Hey birdbrain,” Tony says, hopping up the deck and holding his arms out. “Good to see you.”

“Hi Tony.” Clint allows the hug, then steps back. He holds up his wrists. “Can you take these off?”

“Wow,” Tony says, putting a hand over his heart. “Right to business? Not gonna offer me a drink or anything?”

“I made pancakes,” Steve says, nodding to the kitchen.

“Cuffs first,” Clint says. “Please, Tony. It’s been _months_.”

“I’m kidding.” Tony nods to the jet. “Come with me. I got all the stuff we need.”

Clint follows him to the jet, and Bucky trails after him. As they pass Natasha, she leans in to kiss Clint on the cheek, then pushes something into his hands.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, brushing her fingers as they go down the stairs.

Tony has a whole big thing set up in the back of the Quinjet. Clint takes one look at it, then decides not to ask any questions. “Here,” Tony says, directing him to a space. “Wrist in here. _Don’t_ move.”

Clint hesitates. “Are you sure about this?”

“Very sure. Mostly sure. Like eighty percent.”

“That’s reassuring.” Clint looks at Bucky, who shrugs. “Okay.” He hands Bucky the package Natasha had given him. “Here. I had her bring the book to me so it wasn’t just sitting in a cave.”

Bucky pulls back the wrapping on it. “Oh. Thanks.”

“I’m still up for throwing it in the ocean,” he says. “But also, Tony’s pretty smart. If you want him to look at the engineering stuff, this would be a good time.”

Bucky looks down at the book. “I’ll...think about it.”

“It’s up to you.”

Tony looks between them, obviously confused, but doesn’t ask any questions. “Sit down, bird boy.” Clint sits, and Tony grabs his wrist, setting it into a machine that looks horribly like a little guillotine. He clamps it in place, setting off tiny alarm bells in Clint’s head.

“You’re not gonna chop my wrist off, are you? Please don’t do that.”

Tony snorts. “It would be easier, you know. It would literally be easier for me to cut off your hand and make you a cool new robot one, _Star Wars_ style. But no. Since you’re so attached to your hands, I’ve instead put all of my considerable brains into figuring out this instead.” He fiddles with the machine, poking at a display that Clint can’t see. “And JARVIS helped too, I suppose.”

“Thank you for your acknowledgement, sir,” JARVIS says, somehow managing to sound sarcastic.

“Don’t give me attitude,” Tony says. “You were very helpful. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m sure you’d manage _just_ fine, sir.”

Clint hides a smile. “Hey, J.”

“Hello, Agent Barton. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” He feels Bucky’s hand settle on his shoulder. The touch is grounding, reminding him to keep breathing. “I trust you. Both of you.”

“Good.” Tony hands both of them a pair of heavy-duty sunglasses. “Cover your eyes. This’ll get bright.”

Clint does as instructed, closing his own eyes for good measure. If he’s going to get dismembered, he really doesn’t want to watch.

There’s a loud humming sound, and a flash of light. Then a heat spreads over his hand, slowly growing in intensity until his forehead is beading with sweat, his breath coming in short, sharp pants.

“Hang on,” Tony says, shouting to be heard over the humming. “Just a little more—”

The heat intensifies, until it feels like his skin is on fire, the sharpness of it burning his skin. Then there’s a shuddering around his wrist, and a clanking noise—

“There!” Tony yells, sounding pleased as hell, and the heat fades away.

Clint blinks his eyes open, looking down at his wrist.

His _bare_ wrist.

“Holy shit,” he says, eyes wide. “You actually did it.”

“I did,” Tony says, sounding just as surprised. “Huh. That actually worked.”

“Other side,” Clint says. “Other—other one, _please_.”

Tony repeats the process on the other side, and a few minutes later, Clint is staring at his bare skin for the first time in months. The skin under the cuffs is scarred now, but he’ll take scars over silver any goddamn day. They’re gone. The last traces of Rumlow, finally removed from him.

“Thank you,” he says, and throws his arms around Tony. “Thank you— _thank you._ ”

“You’re welcome,” Tony says, hugging him just as tightly. “Been wanting to do that ever since I saw them on you.”

Bucky leans over and picks them up. “I really didn’t think they’d come off,” he says, studying the metal. “They tested them on me. I wasn’t able to get them apart.”

Clint tries not to think about the implications of that. “Told you he’s a genius,” he says, stepping back from Tony. His eyes are blurry, and he takes a moment to swipe at them before taking the cuffs from Bucky. He doesn’t know what he wants to do with them. Throw them in the ocean, maybe.

Bucky nods. “Yeah.” After a moment’s hesitation, he holds out the book to Tony. “This is the book they used on me. It’s got some things about the arm. Clint said you might be able to fix it? Or make it better?”

Tony looks at Clint, who nods. “Yeah,” he says, gingerly taking the book. “I can do that for you, sure.”

“There’s other stuff in there,” Bucky says. “About the chair they built. It...you might be able to help Steve.”

Tony flips through the book, letting out a low whistle. “This is comprehensive.”

“They used it a lot,” Bucky says quietly, and Clint steps a little closer to him. “There’s trigger words in there too. Would be nice to get those...out. If you can.”

“I’ll look into it,” Tony promises, tucking the book under his arm, and something like relief crosses Bucky’s face.

They leave the jet and go back into the house. Natasha is sitting on the couch next to Steve, quietly talking, her hand covering his. He’s nodding, eyes fixed on hers. As the three of them come in, she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek, then stands up, her hand softly running through his hair.

Clint holds up his wrists. “They’re off,” he says, and a brilliant smile lights up her face.

“I had no doubts,” is all she says. “Come here, all of you. Sit down.” There’s cups of coffee waiting already and Clint immediately sets the cuffs down to grab one, letting the warmth seep into his skin. Bucky sits next to him, his steady presence calming.

“So,” Clint says when they’re all seated. “You said you had something to ask us.”

“I do.” She taps her finger on her mug. “We have a lead.”

“On?”

“A Hydra cell. A big one.” She meets his eyes. “We know where they are, what they’re doing, and how many there are. This is what we’ve been chasing the last few weeks.”

“Let me guess,” Clint says. “You want our help.”

Natasha holds his gaze for a moment. “Yes,” she says, and he appreciates her bluntness. “We do. Right now, the only ones who know about it are me, Fury, and Hill. Security’s a bit tighter now. I’m sure you can imagine why.”

Clint huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. No shit.”

“I’m putting together a group of people,” she says. “If you’re willing, I’d like you to be in it.” She looks at Bucky, and adds, “All of you.”

Bucky scowls. “And if we’re not willing?”

“Then you don’t have to come.” Natasha rubs her eyes. She looks tired as hell, and Clint suddenly feels an urge to hug her. “I’m not going to force you. I don’t _want_ to force you. I’m just laying out the facts right now. We have a good lead on Hydra, and our long-term plan is to chase down and eliminate as many cells as we can. We’ll never be able to fully eradicate them, but if we can scatter them...” She sighs, some frustration entering her voice. “We’re trying. That’s the best we can do.”

“I’m going,” Steve says, flicking his eyes to Bucky. “At least—I’m going back to New York. I...I think it would help me. This has been good, but I need—”

“Familiar surroundings,” Bucky says softly, and Steve nods.

“Bruce is coming along as well,” Nat says. “So is Tony. And Thor’s back too.”

Clint sits up. “Thor’s back?”

“He helped me figure out the cuffs,” Tony says. “Gave me the specs and materials I needed. He and Bruce are checking out something for Fury, or else they’d be here too.”

“Getting the band back together,” Clint says, and Tony offers him a wry smile. “Okay.” He turns to Bucky. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, getting to his feet. “We can talk.”

Natasha nods. “We’ll be here.”

Clint takes Bucky’s hand and leads him outside, down to the beach. “Walk with me,” he says, and they walk along the sand, watching the sunlight sparkle on the water.

Bucky is first to break the silence. “You want to go.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because of this,” Clint says, and he holds up his wrist, displaying the scars. “Because they hurt me. Because they hurt you. Because they ruin everything they touch, and it’s not fucking fair, and I can do something about it.” He stops, turning to face Bucky. “I’m glad we had this. I _needed_ this—just being here, and breathing, and drinking margaritas with you. But it’s all waiting out there, and I knew as soon as we got here that this wasn’t going to last. People need our help, Bucky. And we can help them.”

Bucky smiles softly. “You trying to save the whole world, darlin’?”

“I’m just doing what I can,” Clint says. “You remember what you said to me, right before we left the Red Room?”

“I said I wanted you to be happy.”

Clint nods. “We tried the running and hiding thing,” he says, gesturing to the beach around them. “And it’s been really nice. I’ve loved this. I really have. But I don’t think I can keep burying my head in the sand. Especially not when I know that my best friend is out there, doing this on her own.”

He steps a little closer. “I want to destroy their bases, Bucky. I want to climb up out of the mud and pull their fucking pyramid down, brick by brick. We have the chance to do this, and I _want_ to.”

Bucky pulls him in the rest of the way, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “Okay,” is all he says.

“Okay?” Clint grins. “That’s it? No arguments?”

Bucky shrugs. “Not from me,” he says. “I told you—they took things from me too. If we can stop them from doing the same thing to other people...I think it’s worth it. As much as I’d rather sit on a beach with you forever, I think doing this will be cathartic. For both of us.”

Clint hums in agreement, kissing him again. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

He’s relieved, really. He didn’t _think_ Bucky would say no, but there was always the possibility—and Clint would rather cut off his hand than drag him back into a fight he doesn’t want to be in. Bucky deserves better than that.

“Be good to get back to New York again,” he says as they start walking back. “I mean—I’ll miss the beach, but it’s like you said to Steve. Familiar surroundings would be good.”

“You _are_ my familiar surroundings,” Bucky says. “I don’t really remember the before—I don’t know what my ma looked like, or where I lived, or anything else. I kind of remember Steve, and what Hydra did to me. But seeing you— _you’re_ my first clear memory. The first one I knew I wanted to keep. The first one I knew I’d fight to hold onto.” He wraps an arm around Clint. “I still feel like that.”

Clint tries to breathe past the knot of emotions in his chest. “I’m glad you’re coming with,” he manages. “I’m—I’m really glad.”

The words are inadequate, but he tries to make them mean _more_ , tries to make them say all the things he can’t right now. And he thinks Bucky gets it, because he kisses Clint again, the intensity of it nearly knocking him off his feet.

Natasha looks up when they come in, head tilting to the side in a question.

“We’ll go,” Clint says, and her mouth curves up in the first real smile he’s seen since before Fury died and this whole thing kicked off. “We’ll both go.”

“Awesome,” Tony says, popping up to his feet. “I’ll go get the jet ready.”

“Now?”

Natasha nods. “We have to move quick,” she says. “We don’t know how long this information will be good.”

Clint looks around the little cottage. It’s been a good home for them. He’ll miss it. _Maybe when all this is over, we can come back._

It’s a long shot, but hey. He didn’t think he’d be standing here two months ago. There’s something to be said for wishful thinking.

“You need to grab anything?”

Clint shakes his head.

“Everything I need is here,” Bucky says, dropping a kiss on his head.

Natasha rolls her eyes, but Clint sees the little smile on her face. She might not like Bucky, but she’ll tolerate him for Clint’s sake, and that’s the best he can ask of her right now.

“Sappy,” he says to Bucky. “Disgustingly sappy.” He kisses him. When they break apart, Clint’s eyes fall on the cuffs, and he leans over to pick them up. “Get the guns. I’ll meet you on the jet.”

Clint goes back outside, right up to the water’s edge. It laps at his shoes, inviting and warm, as he turns the cuffs over in his hands.

He thinks about the day he got them. That confusing first day, when he’d been wrestled into them by people he thought were his friends. How they’d clicked shut around his wrists, and some little voice in the back of his head said, _This is not going to end well._

He thinks about the months spent wearing them—sleeping chained to Rumlow’s bed, kneeling at Rumlow’s feet, all the times Rumlow _used_ him. Thinks about the possessive way Rumlow would touch them sometimes, a physical symbol of his ownership.

He could make a speech here, too. Something about breaking chains and being a free person. But just like on the ship, he doesn’t want to spend one more second of his life thinking about Rumlow. It’s not worth the effort.

“Fuck you,” he says to the cuffs, and he hurls them out into the water. They land in the ocean with a splash, sinking beneath the waves and out of sight forever.

Clint turns slightly, feeling lighter than he has in months. Natasha’s standing next to him, quietly watching, and he grins at her. “That felt _so_ fucking good, you have no idea.”

“I bet it did,” she says, smiling back. “You ready?”

Clint looks at the jet, where Bucky and Steve and Tony are all waiting. He has no idea what’s going to happen next. No idea what tomorrow’s going to hold. But if he’s going to jump back in the fight, there’s no other people in the world he’d rather be with. These are his friends—his _family_ ——and he’s so damn glad to have them at his side.

“Yeah,” he says, turning his back to the ocean. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends...there is only one more chapter to go.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the incomparable [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	40. Epilogue

“I hate the snow,” Clint says to Bucky. “Have I mentioned that yet?”

“You have,” Bucky says, stamping his boots at the top of the stairs. “Twice in the last five minutes. And then three times before that. And at least once an hour since we’ve gotten here.”

“I love how much you pay attention to me.” Clint unlocks the front door to the cabin. “It makes me feel _special_.”

“I’m calculating how many drinks I need,” Bucky says dryly, holding the door open for him. “Gotta make it through the rest of this week somehow.”

“Good feelings disappearing,” Clint sighs, and drops his coat on the floor, kicking off his snow boots next to it. “Fine. I’ll stop.”

“Hallelujah.” Bucky grins at him, and Clint punches him in the arm. “Alright, alright. Go get the fire started. I’m gonna do a perimeter check.”

Clint sticks his tongue out and slips past him, heading towards the living room. By the time he gets the fire started, Bucky’s coming in, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “Nat left us a present,” he says, shaking snow out of his hair.

“Did she kill the Hydra base for us?”

“No.” He holds up a six pack. “Beer.”

“Good stuff?”

“Think so.” He sets it down on the coffee table and starts stripping off his jacket. “Perimeter’s clear. Security’s set up. We can relax.”

“Yay.” Clint stretches, popping his back. “There’s satellite, too. Come drink beer and watch shitty TV with me.”

Bucky grins. “Of course,” he says, and sprawls on the couch next to Clint, easily tugging him into his lap. “C’mere.”

Clint hums happily, letting Bucky rearrange him. “Beer,” he says, leaning forward and snagging two. He doesn’t even look at the label, just holds them up and lets Bucky pop the tops off with his metal hand. “I love it when you do that.”

“Why?” Bucky takes his.

“Because it’s funny. You were supposed to be the fist of Hydra, and you’re using your fancy-schmancy arm as a bottle opener. It’s hilarious.”

“Mm.” Bucky rubs his shoulder. “Good for a lot of things, this arm.”

“Oh, I know.” Clint settles against him, tucking his feet under a pillow on the opposite end. “So. This is nice.”

“Yeah.” Bucky drops a kiss on his head, then sips his beer. “Better enjoy it while we can.”

Clint nods. Tomorrow is another raid, another coordinated attack with SHIELD on a Hydra base only a few hours from here. Tomorrow is more blood, more death, more worry. Tomorrow is one step closer to scattering Hydra for good---something they’ve been working on for months, now.

But that’s tomorrow. Right now he’s happy, tucked up against Bucky on the couch, a beer in one hand. It’s taken them a long time to get to this point---navigating a minefield of memories and nightmares and half-remembered horrors hasn’t been easy, for either of them. Clint’s spent enough of his life in SHIELD Psych to know he’s probably got enough PTSD for three people, and Bucky sure as hell isn’t any better.

But they’re _here_ , like he imagined all those months ago, trapped in that fucking cell with Rumlow whispering cruel words into his ear. They’re here, and they’re together, and Clint’s so goddamn grateful.

He doesn’t know if he’d do it all again, but he thinks, sometimes, that it might have been worth it. That _this_ \---good beers, a warm fire, someone he trusts at his back---might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him, even if he had to go through hell to get it.

“Steve texted me earlier,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Yeah? What’d he say?”

“Just an update. Says that Tony says his brain’s healing like it should, and his memories are almost all back. Sam’s been helping.” He drinks his beer. “Faster than I thought, really.”

“They had less time with him,” Bucky says. “And he’s got the real serum. I just have a knock-off. I’m not surprised.”

“Ah.”

“How’s Nat?”

“She’s fine. Shit’s in place for tomorrow. We’ll see her then. Bruce and Thor’ll be there too, so we got some heavy power for once.”

“Good.”

They’re quiet for a while after that. Despite his earlier comment, Clint doesn’t turn the television on, preferring the quiet companionship of the moment. He’s sleepy anyway, his body heavy with exhaustion, and television sounds like too much effort.

“We should go to bed,” Bucky whispers eventually.

“Sleep here,” Clint mumbles, already halfway to it.

“No.” Bucky brushes a gentle hand over his forehead. “Come on, darlin’. Bed.”

He maneuvers them upright, extracting himself from underneath Clint with an ease born from months of practice. Clint watches him stretch, eyes catching on the silver of his arm, glinting with the firelight, perfect just like the rest of him---

“I think I love you,” Clint blurts out, the words sliding out almost without permission. A sense of deja-vu settles in his gut, and for a second he’s worried this _is_ the dream. That he’s going to wake up in that damn cell, cold and alone and with no one looking back at him but Rumlow. The terror of it chokes him for a moment, makes his blood run cold, and he grips the couch cushion underneath him. _This is real. This is reality. You’re here._

Bucky kneels in front of him, silver hand settling on his. “Hey,” he says softly, fingers entwining. “This is real.”

“I know,” Clint murmurs, closing his eyes. He focuses on the fingers around his, and the familiar presence in front of him. “I just---I know.”

“You love me,” Bucky says, and Clint opens his eyes to meet his gaze.

“Yeah,” he croaks, looking into those blue eyes. “That okay?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s other hand cups his face, warm fingers on his skin as he leans in for a kiss. “Think I love you too.”

“Good,” Clint says, and kisses him again---a reassurance, a promise, a sense of warmth settling in his bones. “Good.”

He lets Bucky tug him upright, lead him into the bedroom. Lets him tuck them both under the covers, fussing until they’re comfortable. It’ll probably be too hot in a few hours, but for now, Clint’s more than happy to stay here. Bucky clicks off the lamp, and then there’s just the stars lighting up the sky through the window, just the moon spilling light across the floor.

It’s peaceful.

He puts his hand over Bucky’s, tightening his grip, feeling the soothing chill of the metal. “Love you,” he says again, the words quiet and sure.

“Love you too,” Bucky murmurs. “Go to sleep. We gotta be up with the sun tomorrow.”

Clint used to hate getting up early. But that’s changed too, since Hydra, and now he doesn’t mind it so much. He likes watching the sky lighten, to see the first hint of sun coming over the horizon---a reminder that he’s still here, still alive and breathing and free.

He tries not to take that for granted now.

“I know,” he whispers, and closes his eyes, falling asleep to the soft rhythm of Bucky breathing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, okay then. 
> 
> I don't want to turn this into a whole Oscar speech, so I'm gonna say two things: First, thank you—all of you—for sticking with me, for reading this, for cheering me on. I'm so, so glad I could share this story with you, and I'll be forever in awe and humbled by the response it's gotten. Thank you. <3 <3 <3
> 
> And second, please pop over to [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/) and give my darling friend some love. You would not have this story if not for him (and that's true for most of them, tbh, but especially for this one). Every chapter has been polished to a shine by him, and I can't tell you _how many nights_ I flopped into our server and was like "pls help me with this dumpster fire" and she pulled through like a champ every goddamn time, even when I was pitching these chapters on Sunday evenings at 9pm. Seriously amazing <3\. Couldn't have done it without you.
> 
> Oh—and a third thank you to sunny-kimmy56, who commissioned an art for me in Chapter 38, and [harishe-art](https://harishe-art.tumblr.com/), who drew _gorgeous_ art for chapters 24, 27, and 34. I gave this story words, but your contributions brought it to life, and I am so very, very grateful. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/) Please feel free to hit me up if you have questions, or just want to yell at me, or something else. Idk. 
> 
> “This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until its done. It's that easy, and that hard.”  
> -Neil Gaiman
> 
> Well, he's got a point. <3 
> 
> Love you all. Stay safe.
> 
> -Squaddy


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